The widow Lerouge
Émile Gaboriau





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THE WIDOW LEROUGE











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Charles Scribner's Sms
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i^urmured Noel. "They nuis; nut '..k.' :ne a'ive.'*


THE WIDOW
LEROUGE
Translated from the French of
EMILE GABORIAU
-
Illustrated by
LOUISE L. HEUSTIS
Charles Scribner's Sons
New York .... 1906


Copyright, 1S73, by
JAMES R. OSGOOD & COl
Copyright, 1900, by
CHARLES SCRIBNER'S SONS


LIST OF ILLUSTRATIONS
"Hush!" murmured Noel. "They must not take me
alive." Frontispiece
Facing
page
In the inner room, near the chimney, was found extended
upon the hearth the dead body of the Widow Lerouge. 4
"Gaire—Mademoiselle—I love you." 138
He went in to sit in the sick-room. The lamp was lighted
and the sister moved back and forth 302
158798


I
I


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
CHAPTER I.
On Thursday, the 6th of March, 1862, two days after
Shrove Tuesday, five women of the village of Jonchere
presented themselves at the bureau of police at Bougi-
val.
They stated that for two days past no one had seen
the Widow Lerouge,—one of their neighbors, who lived
by herself in an isolated cottage. The house was shut
up. Several persons had knocked without receiving
an answer. The window-shutters as well as the door
were closed; and it was impossible to obtain even a
glimpse of the interior.
This state of affairs alarmed them. Apprehensive of
a crime, or at the least an accident, they demanded the
interference of justice to satisfy their doubts by forcing
the door and entering the house.
Bougival is a quiet maritime village, its inhabitants
principally boatmen, who ply upon the river. Trifling
offences are sometimes heard of in its neighborhood,
but crimes are rare.
The commissary of police at first refused to listen to
the women, but their importunities fatigued him into
compliance. He called into requisition the services of a
1


2 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
locksmith, the brigadier of gendarmes, and two of his
men; and, thus accompanied, he followed the neighbor
of the Widow Lerouge.
Whatever celebrity it possesses, La Jonchere owes to
the projectors of the railway, which has now passed
close to it for several years, with more enterprise than
profit. It is a hamlet of small importance, seated upon
the side of the hill which overlooks the Seine between
Malmaison and Bougival. It is about twenty minutes'
walk from the main road; which, passing by Rueil and
Port Marly, goes from Paris to St. Germain. A steep
and rugged road, or rather by-path, not easily travelled,
turning off at right angles from the main road, leads
to it.
The little troup, headed by the gendarmes, followed
the highway bordering the river, until it reached this
cross-road, into which it turned, and after stumbling
over its rugged inequalities for about a hundred yards
halted before the dwelling of the Widow Lerouge.
It was a house, or rather cottage, of modest, but com-
fortable appearance, and must have been built by some
Parisian shopkeeper in love with the beauties of
Nature; for all the trees had been carefully cut down.
More deep than wide, it consisted of two apartments on
the ground floor with a loft above. Around it extended
a much-neglected garden, enclosed by a wall of dry
stones about three feet high, much dilapidated,—broken
and crumbling in many places, and affording but slight
protection against trespassers. To this garden a light
wooden gate, turning on hinges clumsily constructed of
iron wire, gave access.
"This is the house," said the women.
The commissary turned. During his short walk, the
number of his followers had been rapidly increasing,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
and now included all the idle persons in the village. He
saw before him about forty peasants of both sexes,
nearly wild with curiosity.
"Let no one enter the garden," said he; and, to en-
sure obedience, he placed the two gendarmes on sentry
before the entrance, and advanced towards the house,
accompanied by the brigadier and the locksmith.
After calling several times, he knocked loudly with
his cane, at the door first, and then successively at each
of the window-shutters. After each blow, he placed his
ear against the wood and listened. Hearing nothing, he
turned to the locksmith.
"Open!" said he.
The workman unstrapped his basket, and produced
his implements. He had already introduced a skeleton
key into the lock, when a loud' exclamation was heard
from the crowd outside the gate.
"The key!" they cried. "Here is the key!"
An urchin of some dozen years, playing with his com-
panions, had perceived in a ditch by the roadside an
enormous key, which he had picked up and carried to
the cottage in triumph.
"Give it to me gamin," said the brigadier. "We
shall see."
The key was tried. It was, in fact, the key of the
house.
The commissary and the locksmith exchanged glances
full of sinister misgivings. "This looks bad," muttered
the brigadier. They entered the house; while the
crowd, restrained with difficulty by the gendarmes,
stamped with impatience, or clambered on the garden
wall, stretching their necks eagerly, to see or hear some-
thing of what was passing within the cottage.
Those who anticipated the discovery of crime, were


2 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
locksmith, the brigadier of gendarmes, and two of his
men; and, thus accompanied, he followed the neighbor
of the Widow Lerouge.
Whatever celebrity it possesses, La Jonchere owes to
the projectors of the railway, which has now passed
close to it for several years, with more enterprise than
profit. It is a hamlet of small importance, seated upon
the side of the hill which overlooks the Seine between
Malmaison and Bougival. It is about twenty minutes'
walk from the main road; which, passing by Rueil and
Port Marly, goes from Paris to St. Germain. A steep
and rugged road, or rather by-path, not easily travelled,
turning off at right angles from the main road, leads
to it.
The little troup, headed by the gendarmes, followed
the highway bordering the river, until it reached this
cross-road, into which it turned, and after stumbling
over its rugged inequalities for about a hundred yards
halted before the dwelling of the Widow Lerouge.
It was a house, or rather cottage, of modest, but com-
fortable appearance, and must have been built by some
Parisian shopkeeper in love with the beauties of
Nature; for all the trees had been carefully cut down.
More deep than wide, it consisted of two apartments on
the ground floor with a loft above. Around it extended
a much-neglected garden, enclosed by a wall of dry
stones about three feet high, much dilapidated,—broken
and crumbling in many places, and affording but slight
protection against trespassers. To this garden a light
wooden gate, turning on hinges clumsily constructed of
iron wire, gave access.
"This is the house," said the women.
The commissary turned. During his short walk, the
number of his followers had been rapidly increasing,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
and now included all the idle persons in the village. He
saw before him about forty peasants of both sexes,
nearly wild with curiosity.
"Let no one enter the garden," said he; and, to en-
sure obedience, he placed the two gendarmes on sentry
before the entrance, and advanced towards the house,
accompanied by the brigadier and the locksmith.
After calling several times, he knocked loudly with
his cane, at the door first, and then successively at each
of the window-shutters. After each blow, he placed his
ear against the wood and listened. Hearing nothing, he
turned to the locksmith.
"Open!" said he.
The workman unstrapped his basket, and produced
his implements. He had already introduced a skeleton
key into the lock, when a loud exclamation was heard
from the crowd outside the gate.
"The key!" they cried. "Here is the key!"
An urchin of some dozen years, playing with his com-
panions, had perceived in a ditch by the roadside an
enormous key, which he had picked up and carried to
the cottage in triumph.
"Give it to me gamin," said the brigadier. "We
shall see."
The key was tried. It was, in fact, the key of the
house.
The commissary and the locksmith exchanged glances
full of sinister misgivings. "This looks bad," muttered
the brigadier. They entered the house; while the
crowd, restrained with difficulty by the gendarmes,
stamped with impatience, or clambered on the garden
wall, stretching their necks eagerly, to see or hear some-
thing of what was passing within the cottage.
Those who anticipated the discovery of crime, were


4 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
unhappily not deceived. Of this the commissary was
satisfied upon the threshold. Every thing in the first
room pointed with a sad eloquence to the presence of a
malefactor. The furniture—a bureau and two large
trunks—were forced and broken open. In the inner
room, the disorder was even greater. It seemed as
though some furious hand had taken a fiendish pleasure
in creating frightful disorder.
In the inner room, near the chimney, was found ex-
tended upon the hearth the dead body of the Widow
Lerouge. She was lying with her face in the ashes. One
side of the face and a portion of the hair were burnt;
it appeared a miracle that the fire had not caught her
clothing.
"Wretches!" exclaimed the brigadier. "Could they
not have robbed, without assassinating the poor
woman?"
"But where has she been wounded?" inquired the
commissary. "I do not see any blood."
"Hold! here between the shoulders," replied the
brigadier; "two fierce blows, by my faith. I'll wager
my stripes she had no time to cry out."
He stooped over the corpse and touched it.
"She is cold," he continued, "and completely rigid.
It is at least thirty-six hours since she received her
death-wound."
The commissary began writing at the table his sum-
mary official report.
"We are not here to speculate, but to discover the
criminal," said he. "Let information be at once con-
veyed to the justice of peace, and the mayor at Bougival,
and send this letter without delay to the Palace de Jus-
tice in Paris. In less than two hours a judge of inquiry



In the inner room, near the chimney, was found extended upon the
hearth the dead body of the Widow Lerouge.





THE WIDOW LEROUGE 5
can be here. In the meanwhile I will proceed to a pro-
visional inquest."
"Shall I carry the letter?" asked the brigadier.
"No, send one of your men; you will be useful to
me here in keeping away intruders, and finding the wit-
nesses I shall require. It is advisable to leave every
thing in this chamber as we have found it. I shall in-
stall myself in the other."
A gendarme departed at a run towards the station at
Rueil; and the commissary commenced his investiga-
tions in regular form, as prescribed by law.
"Who was this Widow Lerouge? Where did she
come from? How was she employed? Upon what means
did she live? What were her habits, her manners, her
companionships? Was she known to have enemies?
Was she a miser? Did she pass for being rich?"
All this it was important to the commissary to ascer-
tain.
But, although the witnesses were numerous enough,
they possessed but little information. The depositions
of the neighbors, successively interrogated, were empty,
incoherent, and incomplete. No one knew any thing
of the victim. She was a stranger in the country. Many
presented themselves as witnesses, moreover, who came
forward less to afford information than to seek the grat-
ification of their curiosity. A gardener who had been
an acquaintance of the deceased, and a young girl
who supplied her with milk, were the only persons capa-
ble of giving any precise evidence; and that was insig-
nificant enough.
In a word, after three hours of laborious investiga-
tion, after having undergone the infliction of all the
gossip of the country, after receiving evidence the most


6 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
contradictory, and listened to commentaries the most
ridiculous the following is all that appeared any way
near certainty to the bewildered commissary.
Twelve years before, at the beginning of 1850, the
woman Lerouge had made her appearance at Bougival,
with a large wagon piled with furniture, linen, and her
personal effects. She had stopped at an inn, declared her
intention of settling in the neighborhood, and immedi-
diately went in quest of a house. Finding this one un-
occupied, and liking it, she had taken it, without trying
to beat down the terms; paid in advance three hundred
and twenty francs for the first six months, but refused
to sign a lease.
The house taken, she installed herself the same day,
and expended about a hundred francs on repairs.
She was a woman about fifty-four or fifty-five years
of age, well preserved, active, and in the enjoyment of
excellent health. No one knew her reasons for taking
up her abode in a country where she was an absolute
stranger. She was supposed to have come from Nor-
mandy, having been at times seen to wear the high white
muslin head-dress of that country. This night bonnet,
as the neighbors called it, did not prevent her from
wearing very coquettish costumes during the day; in-
deed, she wore ordinarily very handsome dresses, very
showy ribbons on her bonnets, and covered herself with
as many jewels as a gipsy. Without doubt she had lived
near the sea, for sailors and seafaring topics recurred
incessantly in her conversation.
Her husband she said was dead, having been lost at
sea; but, as she never entered into particulars on this
subject, the impression was that she disliked speaking
of him.
On one particular occasion she had remarked in


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 7
presence of the milkmaid and three other persons, " No
woman was ever more miserable than I during my mar-
ried life." And at another, "All new, all fine! A new
broom sweeps clean. My sea-monster of a husband
loved me for only a year!"
The Widow Lerouge passed for rich, or at the least
for being very well off; and she was not a miser. She
had given a woman at Malmaison sixty francs to pay
her rent, and at another time advanced two hundred
francs to a fisherman of Port Marly. She was fond of
good living, spent a good deal of money on her table,
and bought wine in large quantities. She took pleasure
in treating her acquaintances, and her dinners were ex-
cellent. If complimented on her easy circumstances, she
made no very strong denial. She had frequently been
heard to say, "I have neither lands nor houses: but I
have every thing I want; and, if I wished for any thing
more, I could have it."
Beyond this, the slightest allusion to her past life, her
country, or her family had never escaped her, although
she was talkative, and at times very boastful. She was
supposed, however, to have seen the world, and to know
a great deal. She never went out in the evenings, but
barricaded herself m her cottage as in a fortress. It
was well known that she got tipsy regularly after din-
ner and went to bed very soon afterwards. Rarely had
strangers been seen to visit her,—two or three times
a lady and a young man, and upon one occasion two
gentlemen,—one old and decorated, the other young and
of a distinguished appearance; these latter came in a
magnificent carriage.
In conclusion, the deceased was held in little esteem
by her neighbors. Her conversation was often singular,
and odious in the mouth of a woman of her age. She


8 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
had been heard to give a young girl the most detestable
counsels. A pork butcher, embarrassed in his business,
tempted by her supposed wealth, had at one time paid
her his addresses. She declined his advances, declaring
that to be married once was enough for her. At several
times two men had been seen in her house, the first of
whom was young and looked like a laborer who worked
upon the railway; the other was a big man, rather
elderly, with huge brown whiskers and dressed in a
blouse, who appeared very fierce and even dangerous.
These men were suspected to be her lovers.
Having interrogated all his witnesses, the commis-
sary proceeded to write out their depositions. As he
finished the last page, the judge of inquiry arrived upon
the scene, attended by the chief of the detective police,
and one of his agents.
M. Daburon was a man thirty-eight years of age, well
made, and of very prepossessing appearance; sympa-
thetic notwithstanding his coldness; wearing upon his
handsome countenance a calm and sweet expression, al-
though tinged with sadness. This settled melancholy
had remained with him ever since his recovery, two
years before, from a dreadful malady, which had well
nigh proved fatal.
Judge of inquiry since 1859, ne na^ rapidly acquired
the most brilliant reputation. Laborious, patient, and
acute, he knew with singular skill how to disentangle
the skein of the most complicated affair, and from the
midst of a thousand threads lay hold of the right one.
None better than he could solve those terrible problems
where the sign x—in algebra, the unknown quantity—
represents the criminal. Armed with an irresistible
logic, he deduced the unknown from the known, and ex-
celled in collecting and uniting in a bundle of over-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
whelming proof facts to others unimportant and cir-
cumstances in appearance the most insignificant.
Although possessed of qualifications for his office so
numerous and valuable, he was tremblingly distrustful
of his own abilities, and exercised his terrible functions
with diffidence and hesitation. He wanted audacity to
risk those coups de theatre, so often resorted to by his
contemporaries in the pursuit of truth.
Thus it was repugnant to his feelings to deceive even
an accused person, or lay snares for him; in fact the
mere idea of the possibility of a judicial error terrified
him. They said of him in the courts, "He is a trem-
bler." What he sought was not presumption or convic-
tion, but the most absolute certainty. No rest for him
until the day when the accused was forced to bow before
the evidence; so much so that he had been jestingly re-
proached with seeking not to discover criminals but in-
nocents.
The chief of detective police was none other than the
celebrated Gevrol, who has so often figured in our previ-
ous works. He was really an able man, but wanting in
perseverance, and liable to be blinded by an incredible
obstinacy. If he lost a clew, he could not bring himself
to acknowledge it, still less to retrace his steps. His
audacity and coolness, however, rendered it difficult to
disconcert him; and being at once courageous, and pos-
sessed of immense personal strength, he never hesitated
to confront the most daring of malefactors.
But his specialty, his triumph, his glory, was his
memory of faces, so prodigious as to exceed belief. Did
he see a face for five minutes, it was enough. Its pos-
sessor was catalogued, and, no matter how long the in-
terval, recognized on reappearance. The impossibilities
of place, the unlikelihood of circumstances, the most in-


io THE WIDOW LEROUGE
credible disguises, could not lead him astray. What he
remembered, he said, was the peculiarities of the shape,
size, color, and expression of the eyes, at which alone he
looked, without noticing any other features.
This faculty was severely tested before he had been a
week at Poissy, by the following experiment. Three
prisoners were draped in coverings completely disguis-
ing their figures. Over their faces were veils, allowing
nothing of the features to be seen except the eyes; and
in this state they were shown to Gevrol.
Without the slightest hesitation he recognized the
prisoners and named them.
Had chance alone assisted him?
The aid-de-camp who attended Gevrol was an old of-
fender, reconciled to the law,—a jolly fellow, cunning,
quick, and useful in his way, but secretly jealous of his
chief, whose abilities he held in light estimation. He
was named Lecoq.
The commissary, by this time heartily tired of his re-
sponsibilities, welcomed the judge of inquiry and his
agents as liberators. He related rapidly the facts col-
lected in his official report.
"You have proceeded well, monsieur," said the judge.
"All is stated clearly; yet there is one fact you have
omitted to ascertain."
"What is that, monsieur?" inquired the commis-
sary.
"On what day was the Widow Lerouge last seen,
and at what hour?"
"I am coming to that, monsieur. She was seen and
spoken to on the evening of Shrove Tuesday, at twenty
minutes after five. She was then returning from Bougi-
val with a pannier of provisions."
"You are sure of the hour?" inquired Gevrol.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE n
"Perfectly, and for this reason: two witnesses, the
woman Tellier and a cooper who lives hard by, alighted
from the omnibus which leaves Marly every hour, when
they perceived the widow in the cross-road, and
hastened to overtake her. They conversed with her until
they separated at the door of her own house."
"And what had she in her pannier?" demanded the
judge of inquiry.
The witnesses were ignorant. They knew only that
she carried two bottles of wine sealed, and another of
brandy. She complained to them of headache, and said,
"While you are going to enjoy yourselves, according to
custom on Shrove Tuesday, I am going to bed."
"So, so!" exclaimed the chief of police. "I know
where it is necessary to search!"
"You think so?" inquired M. Daburon.
"Parbleu! it is clear enough. We want to find the
large brown man, the gallant in the blouse. The brandy
and the wine were intended for his entertainment. The
widow expected him to supper. He came, sure enough,
the amiable gallant!"
"Oh!" cried the brigadier, evidently scandalized,
"she was very old, and terribly ugly!"
Gevrol regarded the honest gendarme with an ex-
pression of contemptuous pity.
"Know, brigadier," said he, " that a woman who has
money is always young and pretty* if she desires to be
thought so!"
"Perhaps there is something in that," replied the
judge. "It did not occur to me. I am more impressed
by the remark of this unfortunate woman,' If I wished
for any thing more, I could have it.'"
"That also attracted my attention," acquiesced the
commissary.


12 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Gevrol did not take the trouble to listen. He held to
his own opinion, and began to inspect minutely every
nook and corner of the room. Suddenly he turned
towards the commissary.
"Now that I think of it," cried he, "was it not on
Tuesday that the weather changed? It had been dry for
a fortnight, and on that evening it rained. At what hour
did the rain commence here?"
"At half-past nine," answered the brigadier. " I went
out from supper to make my circuit of the dancing halls,
when I was overtaken by a heavy shower opposite to the
Rue Pecheurs. In less than ten minutes there was half
an inch of water on the pavement."
"Very well," said Gevrol. "Then if the man came
after half-past nine his shoes must have been muddy.
If dry, he arrived sooner. This ought to have been as-
certained before the floor was disturbed. Were there
any imprints of footsteps, M. le commissary?"
"I must confess we never thought of looking for
them."
"Ah!" exclaimed the chief of police, in a tone of
irritation, "that is vexatious!"
"Wait," replied the commissary, "there is yet time
to see if there are any,—not in this room, but in the
other. We have there deranged absolutely nothing. My
footsteps and those of the brigadier may be easily dis-
tinguished. Let us see."
As the commissary opened the door of the second
chamber, Gevrol stopped him.
"I demand permission, M. the judge," said he, "to
examine the apartment before any one else is permitted
to enter."
"Certainly," acquiesced Daburon.
Gevrol passed into the room, the others remaining


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 13
on the threshold. He took in at a glance the scene of
the crime.
Every thing, as the commissary had stated, seemed to
have been overturned by some furious madman.
In the middle of the chamber stood a table laid for
one person, and covered with a fine linen table cloth,
white as snow. Upon this was placed a magnificent
wine-glass of the rarest manufacture, a very handsome
knife, and a plate of the fine^rfiorcelain. There was an
opened bottle of wine, har^ytouched, and another of
brandy, from which about five or six petits verres had
been taken.
At the right, along the wall, stood two handsome cup-
boards of walnut, with ornamental locks and hinges of
brass, one each side of the window; both were empty,
and the contents scattered on all sides. There were'
clothing, linen, and other effects unfolded, tossed about,
or smashed to pieces.
At the back, near the chimney, a small closet in the
wall for holding the plate was torn open. At the other
side of the chimney, an old secretary with a marble top
had been smashed into fragments, and rummaged to its
inmost recesses. The desk, wrenched away, hung by a
single hinge. The drawers were pulled out and emptied
upon the floor.
At the left of the room the bed had been completely
disarranged and overturned, the bed-ticking cut, and
the straw with which it was filled thrown out.
"Not the slightest imprint," murmured Gevrol, dis-
appointed. "He must have arrived before half-past
nine. You can all come in now."
He walked right to the corpse of the widow, near
which he knelt.
"It cannot be said," grumbled he, "that the work


14 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
is not properly done! the assassin was no appren-
tice!"
Then looking right and left,—
"Oh! oh!" continued he, "the poor devil was busy
with her cooking when he struck her; see her pan of
ham and eggs upon the hearth. The brute hadn't pa-
tience to wait for his dinner. He struck the blow fast-
ing; therefore he can't invoke the gaiety of dessert in
his defence!"
"It is evident," said the commissary, "that robbery
was the motive of this crime."
"It is probable," answered Gevrol in a sharp tone;
"and that accounts for the absence of silver on the ta-
ble."
"Hold! Some pieces of gold in this drawer!" ex-
claimed Lecoq, who had been searching on his own ac-
count,—" about three hundred and twenty francs!"
"What!" cried Gevrol, a little disconcerted.
But he recovered from his embarrassment quickly,
and continued,—
"He must have forgotten them; that often happens.
I have more than once known an assassin, having ac-
complished the murder, so utterly bewildered as to de-
part without remembering the plunder, for which he
had committed the crime. Our man became excited
perhaps, or perhaps may have been interrupted. Some
one may have knocked at the door. What makes me
more willing to think so is, that the scamp did not leave
the candle burning. You see he took the trouble to ex-
tinguish it."
"Bast! " said Lecoq. "That proves nothing. He is
probably an economical and careful man."
The investigations of the two agents were continued
all through the house; but their most minute researches


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 15
resulted in discovering absolutely nothing; not one piece
of evidence to convict; not the most feeble indication
which might serve as a point of departure. Even the
dead woman's papers, if she possessed any, had disap-
peared. Not a letter, not a scrap of paper even, to be
met with.
From time to time Gevrol stopped to swear or grum-
ble.
"Oh! it is a clever piece of work I See what care the
scoundrel takes of number one! He is a clever hand!"
"What conclusion do you come to, monsieur?" at
length demanded the judge of inquiry.
"It is a drawn game, M. the judge," replied Gevrol.
"We are baffled for the present. The miscreant has
taken his measures with great precaution; but, before
night, I shall have a dozen men in pursuit. He shall
not escape us long. He has carried off some table silver
and some jewels. He is lost!"
"With all that," remarked M. Daburon, " we are no'
further advanced than we were this morning."
"Sapristi !" growled Gevrol. "A man can do only
what he can!"
"Confound it!" said Lecoq in a low tone, perfectly
audible, however, "why is not Pere Tirauclair here?"
"What could he do more than we have done ?" re-
torted Gevrol, directing a furious glance at his subor-
dinate.
Lecoq stooped his head and was silent, inwardly de-
lighted at having wounded his chief.
"Who and what is this Pere Tirauclair?" de-
manded the judge. "It seems to me that I have heard
the name, but can't think where."
"He is an extraordinary man!" exclaimed Lecoq.
"He was formerly a pawnbroker's clerk," added


16 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Gevrol; " but he is now a rich old fellow. His real name
is Tabaret; and he has taken to the business of police,
as others do to painting or music, for amusement."
"And to augment his revenues?" asked the com-
missary.
"He?" replied Lecoq. "No danger of that. He
works so much for the glory of success that he often
spends money from his own pocket. It is great amuse-
ment for him though! In the service we have nick-
named him ' Tirauclair,* because of a phrase he is in
the habit of repeating. Ah! he is smart, the old weasel!
It was he who in the case of the banker's wife, you re-
member, discovered the truth, that the lady was herself
the robber."
"True!" retorted Gevrol; "and it was he who had
poor Dereme beheaded for killing his wife; and all the
while the poor man was innocent."
"We lose our time, monsieurs," interrupted the judge
of inquiry. And, addressing himself to Lecoq, he
said,—
"Go and find Pere Tabaret. I have a great desire
to speak to him, and shall be glad to see him at work
here."
Lecoq started at a run. Gevrol was seriously humili-
ated.
"You have the right to demand the services of whom
you please," said he in a tone of suppressed passion;
"but I might—"
"Do not annoy yourself, M. Gevrol. I have great
confidence in your ability. But to-day we happen to
differ in opinion. You hold absolutely to your brown
man in the blouse, and I am convinced he is not the
criminal at all!"
"I believe that I am right," replied the chief, "and


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 17
I hope to prove it; but I shall find the scoundrel, be he
whom he may!"
"I ask nothing better," said M. Daburon.
"Only if you will permit me to give—what shall I
say without failing in respect ?—a piece of advice?"
"Speak!"
"I would advise you to distrust Pere Tabaret."
"Truly? And for what reason?"
"The old fellow is too passionate; he owes his suc-
cess in the police to nothing more or less than his in-
vention. And, as he is vainer than a peacock, he is apt
to overdo matters in order to make a sensation. When
in the presence of a crime like this of to-day, for ex-
ample, he pretends to be able to explain every thing on
the instant. And he will in fact invent a history that will I
be en rapport exactly with the situation. He will pre-
tend, unassisted, to reconstruct all the scenes of an as-
sassination, as a savant who from a single bone recon-
structs an antediluvian animal. Sometimes, as in the
case of the banker's wife, he divines correctly; but at
other times he is far out of the way, as in the case of the
tailor, the unfortunate Dereme."
"I thank you for your advice," said M. Daburon,
"and will endeavor to profit by it. Now, M. le commis-
sary," continued he, " it is most important to ascertain,
if possible, from what part of the country came the
Widow Lerouge."
The procession of witnesses marshalled by the briga-
dier commenced to pass before the judge of inquiry.
But nothing new was elicited. It was evident that the
Widow Lerouge had been during her lifetime a singu-
larly discreet woman; for, although talkative, nothing
in any way connected with her antecedents remained in
the memory of the gossips of Jonchere.


18 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
All the people interrogated tried obstinately to impart
to the judge their own convictions and personal con-
jectures. Public opinion sided with Gevrol. With one
voice, the assembly denounced the big brown man of the
grey blouse. He must surely be the culprit. Every one
remembered his ferocious aspect, and how, struck by
his suspicious appearance, they had wisely avoided him.
He had one evening menaced a woman, and another day
beaten a child. They could point out neither the child
nor the woman; but no matter: these brutal acts were
notoriously public.
M. Daburon began to despair of gaining the least en-
lightenment, when some one brought a grocer of Bougi-
val, at whose shop the victim used to purchase her pro-
visions, and a child thirteen years old, who knew, it was
said, something positive.
The grocer first made her appearance.
She had heard the Widow Lerouge speak of having a
son yet living.
"Are you quite sure of this?" demanded the judge.
"As of my existence," answered the grocer. "One
evening,—yes, it was evening,—she was, saving your
presence, a little tipsy,—she remained in my store more
than an hour."
"And she said,—"
"I think I see her now," continued the grocer; "she
was leaning against the counter near the scales. She
was jesting with a fisherman of Marly, Father Husson,
who can tell you the same; and she called him a fresh
water sailor. 'My husband,' said she, 'would some-
times remain a couple of years on a voyage, and used to
bring me back cocoanuts. I have a boy who is also a
sailor, like his dead father,—a sailor in the navy.'"
"Did she mention her son's name?"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Not that evening; but another evening, when she
•i was, if I must say it, drunk, she told us that her son
was called Jacques, and she had not seen him for a very
. long time."
"Did she speak ill of her husband?"
"Never! she only said he was jealous and brutal,
and used to beat her unmercifully; but he was a good
man at bottom, and made her life miserable. He had a
weak head, and forged ideas out of nothing. In fact,
he was a very stupid brute, but a very good, kind
man."
"Did her son ever come to see her while she lived
here?"
"She never told me of it."
"Did she spend much money with you?"
"As it might happen. About sixty francs a month;
sometimes more, when she bought some old brandy. She
was good pay, poor woman!"
The grocer, knowing no more, was dismissed.
The child, who was now brought forward, belonged
to parents in easy circumstances. Tall and strong for
his age, he had bright intelligent eyes, and features ex-
pressive of watchfulness and cunning. The presence of
the judge did not intimidate him.
"Let us hear, my boy," said the judge, "what you
know."
"Monsieur, a few days ago,—Sunday last,—I saw a
man at Madame Lerouge's garden-gate."
"At what time of the day?"
"In the morning. I was going to church, to serve
the second mass."
"Well," continued the judge, "and this was a big
brown man, dressed in a blouse?"
"No, monsieur: he was short, very fat, and old."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"You are sure you are not mistaken?"
"Certain, monsieur," replied the urchin, " I saw him
close, face to face; I spoke to him."
"Tell me, then, what occurred?"
"Well, monsieur, I was passing, when I saw this fat
man at the gate. He appeared very much vexed,—oh!
vexed awfully! His face was red, or rather purple,
as far as the middle of his head, which I could see
very well; for it was bare, and had very little hair on
it."
"And did he speak to you first?"
"Yes, monsieur, he saw me, and called out,' Halloa!
little fellow!' I went up to him; and he asked me if I
had got a good pair of legs? I answered, yes. Then he
took me by the ear, but without hurting me, and said,
'Since that is so, if you will run an errand for me, I will
give you ten sous. Run as far as the Seine; and, when
you reach the quay, you will see a large sloop moored.
Go on board, and ask to see the captain, Gervaise: he
will be there. Tell him that he can slip his cable,—that
I am ready.' Then he put ten sous in my hand; and I
went."
"If all the witnesses were like this bright little fel-
low," murmured the commissary, "what a pleasure it
would be!"
"Now," said the judge, "tell us how you executed
your commission?"
"I went to the sloop, monsieur, and found the man,
and I told him; and that's all."
Gevrol, who had listened with the most lively atten-
tion, leaned over towards the ear of M. Daburon.
"M. le judge," said he in a low voice, " will you per-
mit me to ask the boy a few questions?"
"Certainly, M. Gevrol."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 21
"Tell us, my little friend," asked Gevrol, " if you saw
this man again, would you know him?"
"Oh, yes!"
"Then there was something remarkable about him?"
"Yes, I should think so! his face was like a brick-
bat!"
"And is that all?"
"Well, yes, monsieur."
"Can you remember how he was dressed? had he a
blouse?"
"No: it was a vest. Under the arms it had large
pockets; and from one of them peeped out the half of a
blue spotted pocket handkerchief."
"How were his pantaloons?"
"I do not remember them."
"And his under vest?"
"Let me see," answered the child. "I don't think
he wore an undervest. And yet,—but no, I remember
he did not wear one: he had a long cravat, fastened near
his neck by a large ring."
"Ah!" said Gevrol with an air of satisfaction, "you
are a bright boy; and I wager that, if you try hard to
remember, you can find more particulars than those
you have given us."
The boy dropped his head, and remained silent. From
the knitting of his young brows, it was plain he was
making a violent effort of memory. "Yes," cried he
suddenly, " I remember another thing."
"What?"
"The man wore very large rings in his ears."
"Bravo!" cried Gevrol, "here is an identification
complete. I shall find this gentleman with the ear-rings
again. M. the judge may prepare a warrant for his ar-
rest."


22 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"I believe, indeed, the testimony of this child is oi
the highest importance," replied M. Daburon; and he
turned to the boy.
"Can you tell us, my little friend, with what this
sloop was loaded? " demanded M. Daburon.
"No, monsieur, I couldn't see, because it was
decked."
"Which way was she going, up the river or down?"
"Neither, monsieur; she was moored."
"Now think well," said Gevrol. "The judge asks
you which way the bow of the sloop was turned,—
towards Paris or towards Marly?"
"The two ends of a sloop are alike to me."
The chief of police made a gesture of disappoint-
ment.
"At least," said he, addressing the child again, " you
noticed the name of the sloop? You can read I suppose;
you must surely have seen the name of the vessel you
went aboard of?"
"No, I didn't see any name," said the little boy.
"If this sloop was moored a few steps from the
quay," remarked M. Daburon, " it was probably noticed
by the inhabitants of Bougival."
"That is true," approved the commissary.
"Besides," said Gevrol, "the sailors must have come
ashore. I shall find out all about it at the wine shop. But
this Capt. Gervaise. my little friend, what was he like?"
"Like all the sailors hereabouts, monsieur."
The child was preparing to depart, when the judge
recalled him.
"Before you depart, my child, tell me, have you
spoken to any one of this meeting before to-day?"
"I told all to mamma, when I got back from church,
and gave her the ten sous."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Three neighbors were called. They all declared that
the widow had kept her bed all Sunday. To one woman
who had visited her, hearing that she was sick, she
said, "Ah I I have had this day a terrible adventure."
Nobody at the time attached any importance to these
words.
"The man with the rings in his ears becomes more
and more important," said the judge, when the women
had retired. "To find him again is indispensable: this
you will take care of, M. Gevrol."
"Before eight days, I shall have him," replied the
chief of police, " if I have to search every vessel on the
Seine, from its source to the ocean. I know the name of
the captain,—Gervaise. The bureau of navigation may
tell me the rest."
He was interrupted by Lecoq, who rushed into the
house breathless.
"Here is Pere Tabaret," said he. "I met him setting
out. What a man! He wouldn't wait for the train, but
paid I don't know how much for a carriage; and we
drove here in fifty minutes!"
Almost immediately an old man appeared at the door,
whose aspect bore little resemblance to the ideal por-
traits of the secret agent of police.
His round face wore an expression of perpetual as-
tonishment, mingled with uneasiness, which would have
made the fortunes of a dozen comic actors of the
"Palais Royale." Scrupulously shaved, he presented a
very short chin, large and good natured lips, and a
nose disagreeably elevated, like the broad end of a Saxe
horn. His eyes, of a dull grey, were small, bordered by
rings of scarlet, and absolutely void of expression; yet
they fatigued the observer by their insupportable rest-
lessness. Thin hairs brushed flat upon his head, light as


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 25
the fur of a rabbit, barely concealed his long ears, which
were large, wide, and spreading away from the skull.
He was comfortably dressed, neat as a new franc
piece, displaying.linen of dazzling whiteness, and wear-
ing silk gloves and leather gaiters. A long and massive
ffofin of gold, of a deplorable taste, was twisted thrice
round his neck, and fell in cascades to his vest-pocket.
Pere Tabaret, surnamed Tirauclair, standing at the
threshold, bowed almost to the ground, bending his old
back into an arch, and in the humblest of voices de-
manded,—
"The judge of inquiry has deigned tosend for me."
"Yes," replied Daburon, adding undevbis-fertath;
"and, if you are a man of any ability, there is at least
nothing to indicate it in your appearance."
"I am here," continued the old fellow, "completely
at the service of justice."
"I wish to know," replied the judge, "whether you
cannot, with more success than has attended our efforts,
discover some indication that may serve to put us upon
the track of the author of this atrocious crime. I will
explain the—"
"Oh, I know enough of it!" interrupted Pere
Tabaret. "Lecoq has told me as much as I desire to
to know."
"Nevertheless," commenced the commissary, " if you
will permit me, I prefer to proceed without receiving
any information, in order to be more fully master of my
own impression. If you know another's opinion, it
can't help influencing your judgment. I will, if you
please, at once commence my researches, with Lecoq's
assistance."
As the old fellow spoke, his little grey eyes dilated,
and became brilliant as carbuncles. His face reflected an


26 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
internal satisfaction; even his wrinkles seemed to laugh.
His figure became erect, his step almost elastic, as he
darted rather than walked into the second chamber.
He remained there about half an hour; then came out
running, then re-entered and came out again; again re-
entered, and again reappeared almost immediately. The
judge could not help comparing him to a pointer on
the scent; restless and active, he ran hither and thither,
carrying his nose in the air, as if to discover some subtle
odor left by the assassin. All the while he talked loudly
and with much gesticulation, apostrophizing himself,
scolding himself, uttering little cries of triumph or self-
encouragement. He did not allow Lecoq to have a mo-
ment's rest. He wanted this or that or the other thing.
He demanded paper and a pencil. Then he wanted a
spade; and finally he cried out for plaster of Paris and a
bottle of oil. With these he left the cottage.
When more than an hour had elapsed, the judge of
inquiry began to lose patience, and asked what had be-
come of the amateur detective.
"He is on the road," replied the brigadier, "lying
flat in the mud. He has mixed the plaster in a plate.
He says he is nearly finished, and that he is coming
back presently."
Tabaret entered almost instantly, joyous, triumphant,
looking at least twenty years younger. Lecoq followed
him, carrying with the utmost precaution a large pan-
nier.
"I have it!" said he to the judge, "completely. It
is as plain as noonday. Lecoq, my lad, put the pannier
on the table."
Gevrol at this moment returned from his expedition
equally delighted.
"I am on the track of the man with the rings in his


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 27
ears," said he; " the sloop went down the river. I have
obtained an exact description of Capt. Gervaise."
"What have you done, M. Tabaret? " said the judge
of inquiry.
The old fellow carefully emptied upon the table the
contents of the pannier,—a huge lump of potter's clay,
several large sheets of paper, and three or four small
morsels of plaster yet damp. Standing behind this ta-
ble, he presented a grotesque resemblance to a mounte-
bank conjurer, who in the public squares makes pud-
dings in hats, swallows swords, and eats fire. His dress
. was in a singular state; he was mud to the chin.
"In the first place," said he, at last, in a tone of af-
fected modesty, "robbery has had nothing to do with
the crime that occupies our attention."
"On the contrary,"—muttered Gevrol.
"I shall prove it," continued Pere Tabaret, "by the
evidence. By-and-by I shall offer my humble opinion
as to the real motive.
"In the second place, the assassin arrived here before
half-past nine; that is to say, before the rain fell. No
more than M. Gevrol have I been able to discover traces
of muddy footsteps; but under the table, on the spot
where his feet rested, I find dust. We are thus assured
of the hour. The widow did not expect her visitor. She
had commenced undressing, and was about to wind up
her cuckoo clock when he knocked."
"These are absolute details!" cried the commissary.
"But easily established," replied the amateur. "Ex-
amine this cuckoo clock; it is one of those which run
fourteen or fifteen hours at most. Now it is more than
probable, it is certain, that the widow wound it up every
evening before going to bed.
"How, then, should the clock have stopped at nine?


38 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
She must have touched it at that hour. At the moment
she was drawing the chain, the assassin knocked. In
proof, I show this chair below the clock, and on the seat
a very plain mark of a foot. Now look at the dress of
the victim. The waist of her gown is taken off. In or-
der to open the door more quickly, she did not wait to
put it on again, but hastily threw an old shawl over her
shoulders."
"Sapristi!" exclaimed the brigadier, evidently filled
with admiration.
"The widow," continued the old fellow, "knew the
person who knocked. Her haste to open the door gives
rise to this conjecture; what follows proves it. The
assassin then gained admission without difficulty. He
was a young man, a little above the middle height, ele-
gantly dressed. He wore on that evening a high hat. He
carried an umbrella, and smoked a trabucos with a
cigar-holder."
"Ridiculous!" cried Gevrol. "This is too strong."
"Too strong for you perhaps," retorted Pere Tabaret.
"At all events, it is the truth. If you have not been
minute in your examinations, there is no reason why I
shouldn't be. I search, and I find. Too strong, say
you? Well, deign to glance at these morsels of damp
plaster. They represent the heels of the boots worn by
the assassin, of which I found a most perfect impression
near the ditch, where the key was picked up. On these
sheets of paper, I have marked in outline the imprint of
the foot which I cannot take up, because it is in the
gravel.
"Look! heel high, instep pronounced, sole small and
narrow,—an elegant boot, belonging to a foot well cared
for evidently. Look for this impression all along the
I


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 29
road; and you will find it twice repeated. Then you will
find it five times repeated in the garden; and these foot-
prints prove, by the way, that the stranger knocked not
at the door, but at the window-shutter, beneath which
shone a gleam of light. Near the entrance of the gar-
den, the man made a leap to avoid a square flower-bed;
the point of the foot, more deeply imprinted than usual,
shows it. He leaped more than two yards with ease,
proving that he is active, and therefore young."
Pere Tabaret spoke now in a low voice, but clear and
penetrating; and his eye glanced from one to the other
of his auditors, watching the impression he was mak-
ing.
"Does the hat astonish you, Gevrol?" pursued Pere
Tabaret. "Just look at this circle traced in the dust on
the marble of the secretary. That was where he placed
his hat: so we arrive at the shape and size of the crown;
and the height is, at least, presumable. Now the assas-
sin put his hands on the top shelf of the cupboard, to
get at its contents. If he had been a very tall man, he
could have seen them without touching the shelf; and,
if a very short man, he would have stood upon a chair;
consequently he must have been a little above the mid-
dle height. You seem troubled about the umbrella and
the cigar-holder; but they are very simple. This lump
of earth preserves an admirable impression, not only of
the point, but even of the little wooden shield which
holds the silk. Then as for the cigar, here is the end of
a Trabucos that I found in the ashes. Is it bitten? No.
Has it been moistened with saliva? No. Then he who
smoked it used a cigar-holder." .
Lecoq was unable to conceal his enthusiastic admira-
tion, and noiselessly rubbed his hands. The commissary


30 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
appeared stupefied, while the judge was delighted. Gev-
rol's face, on the contrary, was sensibly elongated. As
for the brigadier, he was overwhelmed.
"Now," continued the old fellow, " follow me closely.
We have traced the young man into the house. How he
explained his presence at this hour, I do not know; this
much is certain, he told the widow he had not dined.
The honest woman was delighted to hear it, and at once
set to work to prepare a meal. This meal was not for
herself; for in the cupboard I find the remains of her
dinner. She had dined on fish: The autopsy will con-
firm the truth of this conjecture. You can see the rest
for yourself. There is but one glass on the table, and
one knife. Who was this young man? Evidently the
widow looked upon him as a man of rank superior to
her own; for, in the small plate-closet is a table-cloth
suitable enough for her, but not at all good enough
for him. For her guest, she brought out one of white
linen, and much handsomer. For him she sets this mag-
nificent glass—a present, no doubt—and this knife with
the ivory handle."
"That is all true," murmured the judge,—" very
true."
"Now, then, we have got the young man seated. He
began by drinking a glass of wine, while the widow was
putting her pan on the fire. Then, his heart failing him,
he called for brandy, and swallowed about five petits
verres. After an internal struggle of ten minutes (the
time it must have taken to cook the ham and eggs to the
point they have reached). the young man arose and ap-
proached the widow, who was leaning forward over her
cooking. He stabbed her twice in the back; but she was
not killed instantly. She half arose, seizing the assassin
fey the hands; while he drew back, lifting her rudely,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 31
and then hurling her down in the position in which you
see her.
"This short struggle is indicated by the posture of
the body; for, wounded in the back, it is on her back she
ought naturally to have fallen. The weapon used was
sharp and pointed, and, unless I am deceived, was the
end of a foil, broken off and sharpened. By wiping the
weapon upon his victim's skirt, the assassin leaves us
this indication. He was not, however, hurt in the strug-
gle, though the victim must have clung with a death-
grip to his hands; but, as he has not left his gray
gloves,"—
"Gloves! Why, this is romance," exclaimed Gevrol.
"Have you examined the dead woman's finger-nails,
M. Gevrol? No. Well, do so, and then tell me whether
I am deceived.
"The woman, now dead, we come to the object of
her assassination. What did this well-dressed young
gentleman want? Money? valuables? No! no! a hun-
dred times, no! What he wanted, what he sought, and
what he found, were papers, documents, letters, which
he knew to be in the possession of this unfortunate
woman. To find them, he has overturned every thing,
upset the cupboards, unfolded the linen, broken open
the secretary, of which he could not find the key, and
even emptied the mattress of the bed.
"At last he found them; and then what did he do?
Burned them, of course; not in the chimney, but in the
little stove in the front chamber. His end accomplished,
what does he then? He flies, carrying with him all that
he finds valuable, to mislead pursuit, and baffle detec-
tion, by indicating a robbery. Having bundled them to-
gether, he wrapped these valuables in the napkin which
was to have served him at dinner; and, blowing out th'


32 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
candle, he fled, locking the door, and afterwards throw-
ing the key into the ditch.
"That is my idea of the case, M. the judge."
"M. Tabaret," said the judge, " your investigation is
admirable; and I am persuaded your inferences are cor-
rect."
"Ah!" cried Lecoq, "is he not colossal? Papa
Tirauclair?"
"Pyramidal!" cried Gevrol ironically. "I fear, how-
ever, your well-dressed young man must have been
much embarrassed in carrying a bundle at once so incon-
venient and so remarkable."
"He did not carry it a hundred leagues," responded
Pere Tabaret. "You may well believe, that, to reach
the railway station, he would not risk taking the omni-
bus. No, he returned on foot by the shortest way, to
the edge of the water. Now, on arriving at the Seine, it
will not be too strong, I hope, to suppose his first care
was to throw into it this tell-tale bundle."
"Do you believe so, Papa Tirauclair?" demanded
Gevrol.
"I will wager on it; and the best evidence of my be-
lief is, that I have sent three men, under the surveillance
of a gendarme to drag the Seine at the nearest spot. If
they succeed in finding the bundle, I have promised
them a recompense."
"From your own pocket, old enthusiast?"
"Yes, M. Gevrol, from my own pocket."
"If they find this bundle, however,—" murmured
the judge.
He was interrupted by the entrance of a gendarme.
"Here," said he,—" here is a soiled table-napkin,
filled with plate, silver, and jewels, which these men


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 33
have found; they claim the hundred francs' reward,
promised them."
Pere Tabaret took from his pocket-book a bank bill,
which he handed to the gendarme.
"Now," demanded he, ignoring M. Gevrol with a
superb disdain, "what thinks M. the judge of in-
quiry?"
"That, thanks to your penetration, we shall come to
the point,—
He did not finish. The doctor summoned to make
the post mortem examination appeared.
That unpleasant task accomplished, it only confirmed
the assertions and conjectures of Pere Tabaret. The
doctor explained as he had the position of the body. In
his opinion, there had been a brief but fierce struggle.
He pointed out a bluish circle, hardly perceptible, round
the neck of the victim produced apparently by the
powerful grasp of the murderer; then he declared the
Widow Lerouge had dined three hours before being
struck.
Nothing now remained except to collect the frag-
ments of evidence received, which might at a later pe-
riod confound the culprit.
Pere Tabaret examined with extreme care the dead
woman's fingers; and, using infinite precaution, he even
extracted from beneath the nails several small particles
of gray kid. The largest of these fragments was not
above two millemetres in length; but their color was
easily distinguishable. He put aside also the part of the
dress upon which the assassin had wiped the weapon.
These, with the bundle recovered from the Seine, and
the cast of the footprints taken by the old fellow, were
all the traces the murderer had left behind him.


34 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
It was nothing; but this nothing was enormous in the
eyes of M. Daburon: and he had strong hopes of dis-
covering the culprit. The greatest obstacle to success in
the unravelling of mysterious crime is in mistaking the
motive. If the researches take at the first step a false
direction, they are diverted further and further from the
truth, in proportion to the length they are followed.
Thanks to Pere Tabaret, the judge felt confident that
he was in the right path.
Night had come on. The judge had nothing more to
do at Jonchere; but Gevrol, who still clung to his own
opinion of the guilt of the man with the rings in his
ears, declared he would remain at Bougival. He deter-
mined to employ the evening in visiting the different
wine shops, and finding if possible new witnesses.
At the moment of departure, after the commissary
and the entire party had received their congee from M.
Daburon, the latter asked Pere Tabaret to accompany
him.
"I was about to solicit that honor," replied the old
fellow. They set out together; and naturally the crime
which had been discovered, and with which they were
mutually preoccupied, formed the subject of their con-
versation.
"Can we, or can we not, ascertain the antecedents of
this woman?" repeated Pere Tabaret. "All depends
upon that, after all!"
"We shall ascertain them, if the grocer has told the
truth." replied M. Daburon. "If the Widow Lerouge
has had a husband a sailor, and there is now a son of
hers named Jacques in the navy, the minister of marine
can furnish information that will lead to its discovery.
I will write to the minister this very night."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 35
They arrived at the station at Rueil, and took their
places in the train. They were so fortunate as to secure
a compartment to themselves.
But Pere Tabaret was not disposed for conversation.
He reflected,*he sought, he combined; and in his face
might easily be read the working of his thoughts. The
judge felt singularly attracted by this eccentric old man,
whose very original taste had led him to devote his ser-
vices to the bureau of secret police in the Rue Jerusa-
lem.
"M. Tabaret," demanded he brusquely, "have you
been long associated with the police?"
"Nine years, M. the judge,—more than nine years;
and permit me to confess I am a little surprised that
you have never before heard of me."
"I certainly know you by reputation," answered M.
Daburon; "and it was in consequence of hearing of
your talent that the excellent idea of asking your assist-
ance occurred to me. But what was the occasion of
your adopting this employment?"
"Chagrin, M. the judge, isolation, ennui. Ah! I
have not always been happy!"
"I hear, though, that you are rich."
The old fellow heaved a deep sigh, as he recalled what
seemed to him the crudest deception. "I am well off,
monsieur," replied he; "but I have not always been.
Until I was forty-five years old, my life was a series
of absurd and useless privations. I had a father who
ruined my youth, wasted my manhood, and made me
the most pitiable of human creatures."
There are men who can never divest themselves of
their professional habits. M. Daburon was at all times
and seasons a little of a judge of inquiry.


36 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"How, M. Tabaret," said he, "your father the au-
thor of your misfortunes?"
"Alas, yes, monsieur! I have forgiven him long
since; but once I cursed him. In the first transports of
my resentment, I heaped upon his memory all the in-
juries that can be inspired by the most violent hatred.
Even now, when I think,—but I will confide to you my
history M. Daburon.
"When I was five and twenty years of age, I was
earning two thousand francs a year, as clerk in a pawn-
broker's. One morning my father entered my apart-
ment, and announced to me abruptly that he was ruined,
and wanted food and shelter. He appeared in despair,
and declared he had done with life. I loved my father.
Naturally, I strove to reassure him. I boasted of my
situation, and explained to him at some length, that,
while I earned the means of living, he should want for
nothing; and, to commence, I insisted that henceforth
we should live together. No sooner said than done;
and during twenty years, the best twenty years of my
life, I was encumbered with the old—"
"How? you repent of your filial conduct, M. Ta-
baret?"
"Yes, I do repent of it; that is to say, I wish the old
wretch had received his deserts; for then he would have
been poisoned by the bread which I gave him."
Daburon was unable to repress a gesture of surprise,
which did not escape the old fellow's notice.
"Hear, before you condemn me," said he. "There
I was at twenty-five, imposing upon myself the severest
privations for sake of my father,—no more friends,
no more flirtations, nothing. In the evenings, to aug-
ment our scanty revenues, I worked at copying law
papers for a notary. I denied myself even the luxury


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 37
of a cigar. Notwithstanding, the old skinflint com-
plained without ceasing. He regretted his lost fortune.
He wanted pocket-money. He wanted this, he wanted
that. My utmost exertions failed to satisfy him. Ah,
heaven alone knows what I have suffered! I was not
born to live alone to old age, like a dog. I longed for the
pleasures of a home and a family. My dream of hap-
piness was marriage,—an adored wife, by whom I might
be loved a little, innocent little ones gambolling about
my knees; but pshaw! when such thoughts entered my
heart and forced a tear or two from my eyes, I rebelled
against myself. I said: 'My lad, when you earn but
three thousand francs a year, and have an old and cher-
ished father to support, it is your duty to stifle such de-
sires, and remain a bachelor.' In the mean time, I fell
in love. Hold, do not laugh at me. I was but thirty
years of age then; and, old and ugly as I am now, I
was a good looking fellow at that time. She,—she was
called Hortense. I could not marry her and continue to
provide for him. Who can tell what became of her?
I lost sight of her. She waited long; but, alas! she
was pretty and poor. When my father died, and left me
free, I was an old man. The miserable, miserly old,—"
"M. Tabaret!" interrupted the judge,—" M. Tab-
aret!"
"Yes, yes, monsieur. I have forgiven him long ago,
I am a good Christian; but you will understand my an-
ger when I tell you, the day of his death, looking in his
secretary in the hope of finding enough to bury the old
hypocrite, I found a memorandum of twenty thousand
francs of rent!"
"He was rich, then?"
"Yes, very rich; for that was not all: he owned near
Orleans a property leased for six thousand francs a


38 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
year. He owned besides, the house I now live in, where
we lived together; and I fool, sot, imbecile, stupid an-
imal that I was, used to pay the rent every three months
to the concierge!"
"Cruel fortune!" M. Daburon could not help say-
ing.
"Was it not, monsieur? I was robbing myself of
my own money! To crown the absurdity, he left a
testamort, wherein he declared he had no other aim in
view, in thus acting, than my advantage. He wished,
he said, to habituate me to habits of good order and
economy, and keep me from the commission of follies.
And so, monsieur, I was at forty-five a rich man, who
for twenty years could not accuse himself of having ex-
pended uselessly a single sou. In short, he had specu-
lated on my good heart to rob me of my life's happiness.
Bah! it is enough to disgust the human race with filial
piety."
M. Tabaret's anger, albeit very real, was so highly
ludicrous in its effect upon his features and gesture
that the judge had much difficulty to restrain his laugh-
ter, although touched with pity at the recital.
"After all," said he, "this fortune ought to give
you pleasure."
"No, monsieur, it came too late. Of what avail to
have the bread when one has no longer the teeth?
"The best part of life was gone, the age of hap-
piness had passed. I resigned my situation at the pawn-
broker's, to make way for some other poor devil, and
became a gentleman at large. At the end of a month,
I was ennuied to death; and. to replace the interest in
life I despaired of gaining, I resolved to give myself a
passion, a hobby, a mania. I became a collector of
books. You think perhaps, monsieur, that to take an


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 39
interest in books a man must have studied, must be
learned?"
"No, monsieur; but he must have money. I am ac-
quainted with an illustrious bibliomaniac who actually
cannot read his own name."
"It is very possible, monsieur: but I could read; and
I read all the books I bought, and mine is an unique
collection. It consists of all the works I could find
far or near, that related aught concerning the police.
Memoirs, reports, discourses, letters,—all were delight-
ful to me; and I devoured them as Don Quixote did the
books of chivalry.
"Reading these adventures so exciting and so real, I
became little by little attracted towards this mysterious
power which from the obscurity of the Rue Jerusalem
watches over and protects society from fraud and vio-
lence,—that unseen hand that lifts the most impervious
veil; that invisible eye that sees through every plot;
that unknown intelligence that divines even the secrets
of men's hearts, knows to a grain weight the worth of
women's reputation and the price of men's integrity;
that universal confidant who keeps in her secret record
the most terrible as well as the most shameful confes-
sions!
"In reading the memoirs of celebrated police agents
(more attractive matter to me than the fables of our best
authors) I became inspired bv an enthusiastic admira-
tion for those men, so untiring in pursuit, so fertile in
expedient, who follow crime to his stronghold as re-
lentlessly as the savages of Cooper pursue their enemies
in the depths of the American forest. The desire seized
me to become a wheel of this admirable machine,—a
small assistance in the punishment of crime and the tri-
umph of innocence. I have made the essay; and I


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
am proud to say, monsieur, I find I have not mistaken
my vocation."
"Then this employment pleases you?"
"I owe to it, monsieur, my liveliest enjoyments.
Adieu ennui! Since I have abandoned the pursuit of
old worm-eaten books for this to which I am equal, I
am happy. I shrug the shoulder when I see a foolish
fellow pay twenty-five francs for the right of hunting
a hare. What a prize! Give me the hunting of a man!
That calls the faculties into play, and the victory is not
inglorious! The game in my sport is worth the hunter.
He has against him intelligence, force, and cunning.
The arms are nearly equal. Ah! if people knew the ex-
citement of these parties of hide and seek which are
played between the criminal and the detective, everybody
would be wanting employment at the bureau of secret
police. The misfortune is, that the art is being lost
because fine crimes are rare. The race of strong crim-
inals, fearless and ingenious, has given place to a mob
of vulgar pickers and stealers, hardly worth hunting
after,—blunderers as well as cowards, who sign their
names to their misdeeds, and even leave you their cartes
de visite. There is no merit in catching them: their
work examined, nothing remains but their arrest."
"It seems to me," said M. Daburon, smiling, "that
cur assassin is not such a bungler."
"This case, monsieur, is an exception; and I shall
have the greater delight in tracing him: and I will trace
him, though I should compromise myself in the pursuit.
For I ought to confess, M. le judge," added he with a
ludicrous embarrassment, "that I do not boast to my
friends of my exploits, but conceal them as carefully as
possible. They would join hands with me less warmly
did they know that Tirauclair and Tabaret are one."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 41
Insensibly the crime became again the subject of con-
versation. It was agreed, that, in the morning, Pere
Tabaret should instal himself at Bougival. He could
by hard work examine all the peasants in the country
in eight days. On his side the judge promised to keep
him advised of the least evidence that transpired, and
recall him, if by any accident he should procure the
papers of the Widow Lerouge.
"To you, M. Tabaret," said the judge in conclusion,
"I shall be always visible. If you have any thing to
speak of, do not hesitate to come at night as well as dur-
ing the day. I rarely go abroad; and you will always
find me at home, Rue Jacob. When not in my office at
the Palais de Justice, I shall leave orders for your ad-
mittance whenever you present yourself."
The train entered the depot at this moment. M. Da-
buron having called a hackney coach, offered a place to
Pere Tabaret. The old fellow declined.
"It is not worth while," replied he; " for I live, as I
have had the honor to tell you, Rue St. Lazare, two
steps from this."
"Till to-morrow, then!" said M. Daburon.
"Till to-morrow," replied Pere Tabaret; and he ad-
ded, " We shall find him!"
CHAPTER III.
Pere Tabaret's dwelling was in truth, as he said,
not four minutes' walk from the railway terminus of
St. Lazare. He was the owner of the property,—a fine
house, carefully kept, and which must have yielded a
fine revenue, although the rents on the quarter were not
extravagant.


42 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The house being much too large for the old fellow, he
occupied only the ground floor,— a suite of handsome
apartments, well arranged and comfortably furnished,
of which the principal ornament was his collection of
books. He lived very simply from taste as well as habit,
served by an old domestic to whom on great occasions
the portress lent a helping hand.
Nothing in the house gave the slightest indication of
the avocations of its proprietor. Besides, even the hum-
blest agent of police would be expected to possess a de-
gree of acuteness for which no one gave M. Tabaret
credit. Indeed, they mistook for incipient idiocy his
continual absence of mind.
It is true that all who knew him remarked the singu-
larity of his habits. His constant expeditions had given
to his proceedings an appearance at once eccentric and
mysterious. Never was young libertine more ir-
regular in his habits than this old man. He came or
failed to come to his meals, ate it mattered not what or
at what hour. He went out at every hour of the day
and night, often slept abroad, and even disappeared
for entire weeks at a time. Then he received the strang-
est visitors,—odd looking men of suspicious appearance,
and fellows of ill-favored and sinister aspect. ,
This irregular way of life had robbed the old fellow
of some consideration. Many believed they saw in him
a shameless libertine, who dispensed his revenues in dis-
reputable places of amusement. They exclaimed, "Is
it not a shame, a man of that age?"
He was aware of these reports, and laughed at them.
This did not. however, prevent many of his acquaint-
ances from seeking his society and paying court to him.
When invited to dinner, he almost invariably refused.
He saw but little of his tenants, with one exception,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 43
where he cultivated the greatest intimacy, so great in-
deed that he was almost as much at home in his neigh-
bor's apartments as his own. This exception was made
in favor of a widow lady, who had for more than fifteen
years occupied the third floor. She was called Madame
Gerdy, and lived with her son Noel, whom she wor-
shipped.
Noel Gerdy was a man thirty-three years of age,
and older in appearance, tall and well-made, with a
noble and intelligent face, large black eyes, and black
hair which curled naturally. An advocate, he passed
for having great talent, and greater industry, and had
already gained a certain amount of notoriety. An ob-
stinate worker, cold and meditative, devoted to his pro-
fession, he affected, with some ostentation, perhaps, a
great rigidity of principle, and austerity of manners.
In Madame Gerdy's family, Pere Tabaret almost be-
lieved himself included. He looked upon himself as a
parent, and upon Noel as a son. In spite of her fifty
years, he had often thought of asking the hand of this
charming widow, and was restrained less by the fear
of a refusal than its consequences. To propose and be
rejected would sever the existing relations, so pleasur-
able to him. However, he had in his will, which was
deposited with his notary, constituted this young advo-
cate his sole legatee; with the sole condition of paying
an annual prize of two thousand francs to the police
agent who during the year had drawn to light the most
obscure and mysterious crime.
Short as was the distance to his house, Pere Tabaret
was a good quarter of an hour in reaching it. On leav-
ing the judge his thoughts reverted to the scene of the
murder; and, so blinded was the old fellow to external
objects, that the passers by were obliged to push him


44 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
aside in order to pursue their way: thus his progress
was a slow one.
He repeated to himself for the fiftieth time the words
of the Widow Lerouge, as reported by the milk-maid,
| "If I wished for anything more, I could have it."
"All is in that," murmured he. "The Widow Le-
rouge possessed some important secret, which persons
rich and powerful had the. strongest motives for con-
cealing. This secret was her fortune; by means of this
she made her powerful friends sing to her tune. She
has either threatened or wearied them, and they have
silenced her forever! But of what nature was this se-
cret, and how did she become possessed of it? Might
she not in her youth have been a servant in some great
family, where she has seen, heard, or surprised some-
thing. What? Evidently there is a woman at the bot-
tom. May she not have assisted her mistress in some
intrigue? What more probable? And in that case the
affair becomes complicated. Not only must the woman
be found, but the lover; for it is the lover who has
moved in this affair. It must be, or I am deceived, a
noble personage. A man of inferior rank would have
paid the assassin. This man has not hung back; he
himself has struck, avoiding the mistake of an accom-
plice. He is a courageous man, full of audacity and
coolness; for the crime has been admirably executed.
"The gallant left nothing behind of a nature to com-
promise him seriously; but for me, Gevrol would have
seen in the assassination the work of a robber, and over-
looked the real motive for the crime! No," continued
the good man, " it must be the issue of an amour. Time
will show."
Pere Tabaret mounted the steps in front of his house.
The portress, seated in her loge, and chatting with her


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
45
husband, saw him through the window by the light of
the lamp which hung over the door."
"Hold," said the porter, "here is the proprietor re-
turned."
"So it seems," returned the portress. "His princess
does not want him this evening. He looks troubled
about something."
"It is positively indecent," said the porter, "for a
man of his years to act in the manner he does. Oh!
he's got softening of the brain. One of these fine morn-
ings he will find his way to the insane asylum in a
straight waistcoat."
"Look at him now!" interrupted the portress—
"look at him now, in the open street!"
The old fellow had stopped at the extremity of the
porch. He had taken off his hat, and, while talking
to himself, gesticulated violently.
"No," said he to himself, " I have not yet laid hold
of the clew; but I am near it. I burn; but I am not at
the fire yet."
Admitted by the portress, he passed on to the door
of his apartments, of which he rang the bell, forgetting
that he had his pass-key in his pocket. His housekeeper
came and opened it.
"Hey day, monsieur. Is it you, and at this hour?"
"Hey day, madame. And what of that?" demanded
the old fellow.
"Do you know," said the servant, "that it is half-
past eight o'clock? I thought you were not coming
back this evening. Have you dined?"
"No, not yet."
"Fortunately I have kept your dinner warm. You
can sit down to table." <
Pere Tabaret seated himself, and was helped to soup;


46 -: THE WIDOW LEROUGE
but, mounting his hobby-horse again, he forgot to eat,
and remained arrested by an idea, his spoon in the air,
"He is certainly touched in the head," thought Man-
nette. "Look at that stupid air. Who would act in
such a manner that was in his senses?"
She struck him on the shoulder, bawling in his ear,
as if he were deaf,—
"You do not eat. Are you not hungry?"
"Yes, yes," answered he, trying mechanically to es-
cape the voice that sounded in his ears, " I am very hun-
gry; for since morning I have been obliged "—
He interrupted himself, remaining with his mouth
open, his eyes fixed on vacancy.
"You have been obliged—?" repeated Mannette.
"Thunder!" cried he, raising his clenched hands to-
wards the ceiling,—" thunder of heaven! I have it
now."
His movement was so violent and sudden that the
housekeeper was alarmed, and retired to the further
end of the room, near the door.
"Yes," continued he, " it is certain there is a child!"
Mannette approached quickly.
"An infant?" she asked in astonishment.
"Ah, so," cried he in a furious tone. "What are you
doing there? Has your hardihood come to this that
you pick up the words which escape me? Do me the
favor to retire to your kitchen, and stay there until I
call you."
"He is going crazy!" thought Mannette, as she dis-
appeared very quickly.
Pere Tabaret returned to the table. The soup was
completely cold; but he swallowed it in large spoonfuls,
without remarking it.
"Stupid !" said he to himself. "Why did I not think


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 47
of it before? Poor humanity! I am growing old; and
my toils are less sharp than they used to be. But it is
clear as the day: the circumstances all point to that con-
clusion."
He rapped with his spoon upon the table: the servant
reappeared.
"The roast," demanded he, "and leave me to my-
self."
"Yes," continued he, furiously carving a leg of
Presale mutton,—" yes, there was an infant; and here
is the history. The Widow Lerouge, when a young wo-
man, is in the service of a great lady, immensely rich.
Her husband, a sailor, probably had departed on a long
voyage. The lady had a lover—found herself enciente.
She confided in the Widow Lerouge, and, with her as-
sistance, accomplished a clandestine accouchement."
He called again.
"Mannette, the dessert, and get out!"
Certainly such a master was unworthy of so excellent
a cook as Mannette. He would have been puzzled to
say what he had eaten for dinner, or even what he was
eating at this moment; it was a preserve of pears.
"But what," murmured he, "has become of the
child? Has it been destroyed? No; for the Widow
Lerouge, an accomplice in an infanticide, would be no
longer formidable. The child has been preserved, and
confided to the care of our widow, by whom it has been
reared. They have been able to take the infant away
from her, but not the proofs of its birth and its ex-
istence. Here is the opening. The father is the man
of the fine carriage; the mother is the lady who
came with the handsome young man. Ha! ha! I
can well believe the dear old dame wanted for nothing.
She had a secret worth a farm in Brie. But the old lady


48 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
was extravagant; her expenses and her demands have
increased year by year. Poor humanity! She has
leaned upon the staff too heavily, and broken it. She
has threatened. They have been frightened, and said,
'Let there be an end of this!' But who has charged
himself with the commission? The papa? No: he is
too old. By jupiter! the son,— the child himself! He
would save his mother, the brave boy! He has slain the
witness and burnt the proofs!"
Mannette all this time, her ear to the keyhole, listened
with all her soul; from time to time she gleaned a word,
an oath, the noise of a blow upon the table; but that was
all.
"For certain," thought she, " his women are running
in his head."
Her curiosity overcame her prudence. Hearing no
more, she ventured to open the door a little way. The
old fellow caught her in the very act.
"Monsieur wants his coffee?" stammered she tim-
idly.
"Yes, you may bring it to me," he answered.
He attempted to swallow his coffee at a gulp, but
scalded himself so severely that the pain brought him
suddenly from speculation to reality.
"Thunder!" grumbled he; "but it is hot! Devil
take the case! it has set me beside myself. They are
right in the office, when they say I take too strong an
interest in the investigations. Who but I should have,
by the sole exercise of observation and reason, estab-
lished the whole history of the assassination? Certainly
not Gevrol, poor man! He must, if he has any profes-
sional feeling, be deeply humiliated. Shall I seek M.
Daburon? No, not yet. I must sift to the bottom all
the particulars and arrange my ideas systematically be-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 49
fore meeting him again. Upon the other hand, if I sit
here alone, this history will keep me in a fever of specu-
lation. My faith! I will call upon Madame Gerdy:
she has been ailing for some days. I will have a chat
with Noel, and that will brighten me up a little."
He got up from the table, and took his hat and cane.
"Monsieur is going out?" demanded Mannette.
"Yes."
"Monsieur will not return until late?"
"Possibly."
"But monsieur will return?"
"I do not know."
One minute later Pere Tabaret rang at his friend
Madame Gerdy's apartments.
Madame Gerdy lived in respectable style. She pos-
sessed a competence; and her son's business, already
large, had made it a fortune. She had few acquaint-
ances, and, with the exception of one or two friends,
occasionally invited to dinner, received no visitors. Dur-
ing the fifteen years that Pere Tabaret came familiarly
to the house, he had encountered only the curate of the
parish, an old professor, and Madame Gerdy's brother,
a colonel retired from service.
When these three visitors called upon the same even-
ing, an event somewhat rare, they played at " Boston,"
or made a party at piquet. Noel, however, seldom re-
mained in the salon, but shut himself up after dinner
in his study, and immersed himself in his law papers.
He was supposed to work far into the night. Often in
winter his lamp was not extinguished before dawn.
Mother and son absolutely lived for one another, as
all who knew them took pleasure in repeating.
They loved and honored Noel for the care he be-
stowed upon his mother,—for his more than filial de-


50 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
votion,—for the sacrifices which all supposed he made
in living at his age like an old man.
The neighbors were in the habit of contrasting die
conduct of this exemplary young man with that of Pere
Tabaret, the incorrigible old rake, the gallant in the
peruke.
i. As for Madame Gerdy, she saw nothing but her son
in all the world. Her love had actually taken the form
of worship. In Noel, she believed she saw united all the
physical and moral perfections. To her he seemed of
a superior order to the rest of humanity. If he spoke,
she listened and was silent: his word was a command,
his advice a decree of Providence. To care for her son,
study his tastes, anticipate his wishes, was the sole aim
of her life. Noel was her existence.
She was a mother.
"Is Madame Gerdy visible?" demanded Pere Tab-
aret of the young girl who opened the door; and, with-
out waiting for an answer, he walked into the room like
a man assured that his presence cannot be inopportune,
and ought to be agreeable.
A single lamp gave light to the salon, which was not
in its accustomed order. The marble-top table, usually
in the middle of the room, was rolled into a corner.
Madame Gerdy's large arm-chair was near the window:
a newspaper, all crumpled, lay before it on the carpet.
The old amateur took in the whole at a glance.
"Has any accident occurred?" demanded he of the
young ,girl.
"Do not speak to me, monsieur: we have had such a
fright! oh, what a fright!"
"What was it? speak quickly!"
"You know that madame has been ailing for more


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
5»
than a month. She has eaten I may say almost nothing;
this morning, even, she said to me "—
"Well, well! but this evening?"
"After dinner madame came into the salon as usual.
She sat down and took up one of M. Noel's newspapers.
Scarcely had she begun to read, when she uttered a
great cry,—oh, a terrible cry, monsieur! We ran into
the salon, and found madame where she had fallen upon
the carpet as if dead. M. Noel raised her in his arms,
and carried her into her chamber. I wanted to fetch a
doctor; but he said there was no need: he knew what
was the matter with her."
"And how is she now?"
"She has come to her senses; that is to say; I suppose
so; for M. Noel made me leave the room. All that I do
know is, that she kept talking all the time, and talking
very loudly too; for I heard her say,—Ah, monsieur,
but it is all so very strange!"
"What is strange?"
"What I heard Madame Gerdy say to M. Noel.
"Ah ha! my belle!" sneered Pere Tabaret; " so you
listen at key-holes, do you?"
"No, monsieur! no indeed, I swear to you; but ma-
dame cried out like one lost. She said,"—
"My girl," said Pere Tabaret, " one never hears any
thing good through key-holes. Mannette can tell you
as much."
The poor girl, thoroughly confused, sought to excuse
herself.
"Enough, enough!" said the good man. "Return to
your work: you need not disturb M. Noel; I can wait
for him very well here.
And, satisfied with the reproof he had administered,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
he picked up the newspaper, and installed himself in the
chimney-corner, placing the lamp so as to read with
ease.
A minute had scarcely elapsed when he in his turn
bounded in his chair, and uttered a cry of instinctive
terror and surprise.
These were the first words that met his eye.
"A horrible crime has plunged in grief and conster-
nation the little village of La Jonchere. A poor widow,
named Lerouge, who enjoyed the general esteem and
love of the community, has been assassinated in her own
house. The officers of the law made the usual
preliminary investigations; and, from the informa-
tion we have been able to gather, we believe justice
is already on the track of the authors of this das-
tardly crime."
"Thunder!" cried Pere Tabaret to himself, "can it
be that Madame Gerdy ?"—
The idea was but a gleam of lightning, dismissed as
soon as formed; he fell back into the arm-chair, and,
raising his shoulders, murmured,—
"This affair of Jonchere is driving me out of my
senses! I can think of nothing but this infernal Widow
Lerouge. I see her now in every thing."
In the mean while, an uncontrollable curiosity made
him peruse the entire newspaper. He found nothing,
with the exception of these lines, to justify or explain
even the slightest emotion.
"It is an extremely singular coincidence, at the same
time," thought the incorrigible police agent. Then, re-
marking that the newspaper was slightly torn at the
lower part, and crushed, as if by a convulsive grasp, he
repeated,—
"It is strange!"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
53
At this moment the door of Madame Gerdy's room
opened, and Noel appeared on the threshold.
Without doubt the accident to his mother had greatly
excited him; for he was very pale and his countenance,
ordinarily so calm, wore an expression of profound sor-
row. He appeared surprised to see Pere Tabaret.
"Ah, my dear Noel!" cried the old fellow. "Calm
my inquietude. How is your mother?"
"Madame Gerdy is as well as can be expected."
"Madame Gerdy!" repeated the old fellow with an
air of astonishment; but he continued, " It is plain you
have been seriously alarmed."
"In truth," replied the advocate, seating Himself,
"I have experienced a rude shock."
Noel was making visibly the greatest efforts to appear
calm, to listen to the old fellow, and to answer him.
Pere Tabaret, as much disquieted on his side, perceived
nothing.
"At least, my dear boy," said he, " tell me how this
happened?"
The young man hesitated a moment, as if consult-
ing with himself. No doubt he was unprepared for
this point blank question, and knew not what answer to
make; at last he replied,—
"Madame Gerdy has suffered a severe shock in learn-
ing from a paragraph in this newspaper that a woman
in whom she takes a strong interest has been assassina-
ted."
"Ah!" cried Pere Tabaret.
The old fellow was in a fever of embarrassment. He
wanted to question Noel, but was restrained by the fear
of revealing the secret of his association with the police.
Indeed he had almost betrayed himself by the eager-
ness with which he exclaimed,— .


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"What! your mother knew the Widow Lerouge?"
By an effort he restrained himself, and with difficulty
dissembled his satisfaction; for he was delighted to find
himself so unexpectedly on the trace of the antecedents
of the victim of La Jonchere.
"She was," continued Noel, "the slave of Madame
Gerdy, devoted to her body and soul! She would have
thrown herself in the fire at a sign from her hand."
"Then you, my dear friend, you knew this honest
woman?"
"I have not seen her for a long time," replied Noel;
"but I knew her well; I ought even to say I loved her
tenderly. She was my nurse."
"She, this woman?" stammered Pere Tabaret.
This time he was thunderstruck. The Widow Le-
rouge Noel's nurse? He was playing with fortune.
Providence had evidently chosen him for its instrument,
and was leading him by the hand. He was about to
obtain all the information, in one half-hour, which he
had almost despaired of ever procuring. He remained
seated before Noel stunned and speechless. At length
he remembered, that, unless he would compromise him-
self, he must break the silence.
"It is a great misfortune," murmured he.
"For Madame Gerdy, I know nothing of that; but,
for me, it is an overwhelming misfortune! I am struck
to the heart by the blow which has slain this poor wo-
man. Her death, M. Tabaret, has annihilated my
dreams of the future, and overthrown my most cher-
ished hopes. I have to perform a solemn duty,—to
avenge myself for cruel outrages. Her death breaks
the weapon in my hands, and reduces me to despair, to
impotence. Alas! I am indeed unfortunate."
"You unfortunate?" cried Pere Tabaret, singularly


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 55
affected by the sadness of his dear Noel. "In heaven's
name, what has happened to you?"
"I suffer," murmured the advocate, "not only from
injustice that can never be repaired, but from dread of
calumny that cannot be repudiated. I am defenceless.
I shall be accused of inventing falsehood, of being an
ambitious intriguer, having no regard for truth, no
scruples of conscience."
Pere Tabaret was puzzled. What connection could
possibly exist between Noel's honor and the assassina-
tion at Jonchere? His brain was in a whirl. A thous-
and troubled and confused ideas jostled one another in
inextricable confusion.
"Come, come, Noel," said he, " collect yourself. Cal-
umny threatens you? Nonsense! Have you not
friends? Am I not here? Have confidence in me.
It will be strange, indeed, if between us two—"
The advocate started to his feet, inflamed by a sudden
resolution.
"Yes," interrupted he, "you shall know the secret
that is stifling me. The role I have imposed upon my-
self irritates and confounds me. I have need of a friend
to console, a counsellor to advise me; for one is a bad
judge of his own cause: and this crime has plunged me
into an abyss of hesitation."
"You know," replied Pere Tabaret, " that I regard
you as a son. Command me, my dear Noel, as if I were
indeed your father."
"Know then," commenced the advocate,—" but no,
not here: what I have to say must not be overheard.
Let us go into my study."


56 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
CHAPTER IV.
When Noel and Pere Tabaret were seated face to
face in the small apartment devoted to Noel's business,
and the door had been carefully locked, the old fellow
began to feel uneasy.
"If your mother should require any thing," said he.
"If Madame Gerdy rings," replied the young man,
"the servant will attend to her wants."
This indifference, this coldness, confounded Pere
Tabaret, accustomed as he was to the interchange of
affection between mother and son.
"For heaven's sake, Noel," said he, "calm yourself.
Do not allow yourself to be overcome by a feeling of ir-
ritation. You have, I see, some little pique against your
mother, which will be forgotten to-morrow. Don't
speak of her in this icy tone; but tell me what you mean
by calling her Madame Gerdy?"
"What I mean?" replied the advocate in a hollow
tone,—" what I mean?"
He quitted his arm-chair, took several strides across
the floor of the little chamber, returned to his place
near the old fellow, and said,—
"Because, M. Tabaret, Madame Gerdy is not my
mother!"
This sentence fell like a blow of a heavy club on the
head of the amateur: he was paralyzed.
"Oh!" said he, in the tone one assumes when reject-
ing an absurd proposition, " do you dream of what you
say, Noel? Is it credible? Is it probable?"
"It is improbable," replied Noel with peculiar em-
phasis: " it is incredible, if you will; but it is true. For
thirty-three years, ever since my birth, this woman has


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 57
played a most marvellous and unworthy comedy, to en-
noble and enrich her son,—for she has a son,—and to
despoil, to plunder me!"
"My friend,"—continued Pere Tabaret, who in the
background of the picture presented by this singular
revelation saw again the phantom of the murdered
Widow Lerouge.
I But Noel heard not, and seemed hardly in a state to
hear. The young man, usually so cold, so self-con-
tained, could not control his anger. At the sound of
his own voice, he became animated, as a good horse
might at the jingling of his harness.
"Was ever man," continued he, "more cruelly de-
ceived, more miserably duped, than I have been,—I who
have so loved this woman? How I have sought for
evidences of affection to lavish on her, who was sacri-
ficing me to her own selfish ambition for her son! How
she has laughed at me! Her infamy dates from the
moment when for the first time she took me on her
knees; and, until these few days past, she has sustained
without faltering her execrable role: her love for me,
hypocrisy! her devotion falsehood! her caresses lies.
And how I have worshipped her! Ah! why can I not
recall the innocent kisses of my childhood, the devotion
of my youth, the sacrifices of my manhood, given in ex-
change for her Judas' kisses? And for what was all this
heroism of deception, this caution, this duplicity? To
betray me, more securely to despoil me; to rob me; to
give to her illegitimate offspring all that lawfully apper-
tained to me,—a noble name, a princely inheritance!"
"We are burning!" thought Pere Tabaret, who was
fast relapsing into the collaborates of M. Gevrol;
then aloud he said,—
"This is terribly serious, my dear Noel. To credit


58 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
what you have said, we must believe Madame Gerdy
possessed of an amount of audacity and ability rarely
united in one individual. She must have been assisted,
advised, compelled perhaps. Who have been her ac-
complices? She could never have accomplished this
herself; her husband perhaps himself?"
"Her husband!" interrupted Noel, with a bitter
laugh. "Ah! you have believed her a widow. Pshaw!
She never had a husband. Pere Gerdy never had an
existence. I am illegitimate, my dear Tabaret, thrice
base born,—Noel, son of a femme couvert, and an un-
known father!"
"Ah!" cried the old fellow; "this then is the occasion
of your marriage with Mademoiselle Levernois being
delayed these four years?"
"Yes, my friend, that was the cause. And what mis-
fortunes might have been averted by this marriage with
a young girl whom I love! Had I wedded her before
making this abominable discovery, I should not have
wasted all my affection on her that I have called my
mother. When she told me I was not the son of this im-
aginary individual, this M. Gerdy, she wept, she ac-
cused herself, she seemed ready to die of grief and
shame; and I, poor fool! dry her tears, excuse her to
her own eyes, console her with my caresses! No, she
had no husband: such women have no husbands. She
was the Count de Commarin's mistress; and, on the
day when he quitted her, he threw to her three hun-
dred thousand francs, the price of her degradation!"
Noel would have continued to pour forth these fur-
ious denunciations; but his volubility was arrested by
the old fellow. He felt he was coming to a history in all
points similar to that which he had imagined; and his


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 59
impatience to gratify his vanity, in discovering how
nearly he had divined the facts, made him almost for-
get to express any sympathy for his friend's misfor-
tunes.
"My dear boy," said he, " let us not digress. You
ask me for advice; and I am perhaps the best adviser
you could have chosen. Come, then, to the point. How
have you learned this? Have you proofs of what you
state? where are they?"
The decided tone of the old fellow would no doubt
have awakened Noel's attention at any other time; but
he was off his guard: he had not leisure to stop or to re-
flect. He answered promptly,—
"I have known the truth for three weeks. I made
the discovery by chance. I have important moral proofs;
but they are mere presumptive evidence. A word from
the Widow Lerouge, one single word, would have ren-
dered them decisive. This word, she cannot pronounce,
since they have killed her; but she has said it to me. Of
what avail? Now, Madame Gerdy will deny all. I
know her; with her head on the block, she will deny it.
My father doubtless will turn against me. I am myself
morally convinced. I was strong in evidence; but this
crime renders vain my certainty, utterly destroys my
proofs!"
"Explain it all to me," replied Pere Tabaret after a
pause,—" all you understand. We, the old, are some-
times able to give good advice; and I am willing to ad-
vise you."
"Three weeks ago," commenced Noel, "searching
for some old documents. I opened Madame Gerdy's sec-
retary. Accidentally I overturned a drawer: some
papers tumbled out, amongst which were a packet of


6o THE WIDOW LEROUGE
letters, which fell right into my hand. A mechanical
impulse, which I cannot explain, prompted me to untie
the string, and read one of the letters."
"You did wrong," remarked Pere Tabaret.
"Be it so. I read. At the end of ten lines, I was
convinced that this correspondence was my father's,
whose name, Madame Gerdy, in spite of my prayers,
had always hidden from me. You can understand my
emotion. I carried off the packet, shut myself up in this
room, and devoured the letters from beginning to end."
"And you have been cruelly punished, my poor
boy!"
"It is true; but who in my position could have re-
sisted? These letters have given me pain; but they af-
ford the proof of what I have told you."
"And you have preserved the letters?"
"I have them here; and, that you may understand
the case in which I have requested your advice, I am
going to read them to you."
. The advocate opened one of the drawers of his bu-
reau, pressed an imperceptible spring, and a hidden re-
ceptacle appeared in the back of the upper tablette, from
which he drew out a bundle of letters.
"You understand, my friend," said he, " that I shall
spare you all insignificant details, which, however, have
their own weight. I am only going to take up the im-
portant facts, which treat directly of the affair."
Pere Tabaret nestled in his arm-chair, burning with
the fever of curiosity, his face expressing the most ar-
dent attention.
After a selection, which he was some time in making,
the advocate opened a letter, and commenced his read-
ing in a voice which trembled, in spite of his efforts to
render it calm.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 6l
"' My Valerie, well beloved,—'
"Valerie," said he, "you understand is Madame
Gerdy."
"I know, I know. Do not interrupt yourself."
Noel continued.
"' My Valerie, well beloved.
"' This is a happy day. This morning I received your
welcome letter. I have covered it with kisses. I have
read it a hundred times; and now it has gone to join the
others here upon my heart. This letter fills me with
transport. You were not deceived. Heaven has blessed
our loves; and we shall have a son.
"' I shall have a son, the living image of my adored
Valerie! Oh! why are we parted at a time like this?
Why have I not the wings of a bird, that I might fly
to thee, beloved of my soul and mingle our tears of joy
and thankfulness? Ah! never as at this moment have I
cursed the fatal union imposed upon me by an inexor-
able family, whose cruelty my prayers and tears could
not soften. I cannot restrain myself from hating this
woman who bears in spite of me my name, innocent vic-
tim though she is of the barbarity of our parents. And,
to fill up the measure of sorrow, she is also soon to make
me a father. What words can paint my sorrow when I
compare the fortunes of these two children?
"' One, son of the object of my tenderest love, shall
have neither father, family, nor name, since an inexor-
able law forbids me to legitimatize him. While the
other, the son of my detested spouse, by the sole fact of 1
his birth shall be rich, honored, noble, surrounded by
devotion and homage, with a great position in the world.
I cannot endure the thought of this terrible injustice!
Who can imagine a way to repair it? I cannot tell now;
but be sure I shall find a way. It is to him, the most
desired, most cherished, most beloved, that the best for-
tune should come; and come to him it shall: I swear
H.'"


62
THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"From whence is that letter dated?" demanded Pere
Tabaret.
"See," replied Noel.
He handed the letter to the old fellow, who read,—
"Venice, December, 1828."
"You perceive," said the advocate, "all the impor-
tance of this first letter: it is a brief statement of the
facts. My father, married in spite of himself, adores his
mistress and detests his wife. Nor are his feelings to-
wards the infants at all concealed. In fact, we can
plainly perceive, peeping forth, the germ of the idea
which afterwards he matured and carried into execu-
tion, in defiance of all law human or divine!"
He was gradually falling into his professional man-
ner, as if pleading the cause before the tribunals. Pere
Tabaret again interrupted him.
"There is no explanation necessary; the letter is ex-
plicit enough. I am not an adept in such matters as a
grand juror; but I understand admirably so far."
"I pass several letters," continued Noel, "and I
come to this one of Jan. 23, 1829. It is very long, and
filled with matters altogether foreign to the subject
which now interests us. However, I find therein two
passages, which attest the slow but steady and deter-
minate growth of the idea suggested in the first letter.
"' The destinies, more powerful than my will, chain
me here; but my soul is ever near to thee, my adored
Valerie! Without ceasing, my thoughts rest upon the
unspeakable happiness in store for us.'
"I skip," said Noel. "several pages of passionate
rhapsody, to stop at these lines at the end.
"' My aversion to the countess increases daily. Un-
fortunate woman! I hate and at the same time pity her.
She seems to divine the occasion of my sadness, my


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 63
coldness. By her timid submission and unalterable
sweetness, she seems to seek pardon for her share in
our unhappy union. Sacrificed creature! She also may
have given her heart to another, before being fettered
to a husband who can never look upon her with a hus-
band's love. Your good heart will pardon me this pity.'
"That countess was my mother," cried the advocate
in a trembling voice. "And he demands pardon foi
the pity she inspires! Poor lady!"
He covered his eyes with his hand, as if forcing back
his tears, and added in a low tone,—
"She is dead!"
In spite of his impatience, Pere Tabaret dared not
utter a word. He resented keenly the profound sorrow
of his youthful and respected friend. After a silence,
which almost maddened the old fellow, Noel raised
his head, and returned to the letters.
"All the letters which follow," said he, " carry traces
of the preoccupation of my father's mind on the sub-
ject of his illegitimate son. I lay them, however, aside,
and take up this written from Rome, March 5, 1829."
"' My son,—our son, my most constant, my only
care,—how to secure for him the position in the future
of which I dream? The nobles of former days had not
these vulgar obstacles to their wishes to contend with.
In old time, a word from the king would have ennobled
my son, and given him a place in the world. To-day,
the king who governs with difficulty his disaffected
subjects, can do less than nothing. Nobility has lost its
rights, and the lords of France are as powerless to trans-
gress the laws as the meanest of their vassals.'
"Lower down I find,—
"' My heart loves to picture to itself the form and
features of our son. He will have the soul, the mind,


64 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
the beauty, all the fascinations of his mother. He will
inherit from his father the pricle, the valor, the senti-
ments of his noble and ancient race. What will be the
other? I tremble to think of it.'
'"The monster! that is I!" cried the advocate with
intense rage. "' Whilst the other—' but let us leave
this part of the subject, these preliminaries to an out-
rageous action. I only desire by these to show the ab-
beration of my father's reason under the influence of his
passion. We shall soon be at the end."
Pere Tabaret was astonished at the strength of this
passion, long since burnt out, of which Noel was rak-
ing up the dead ashes. Perhaps he felt all the more
keenly the force of those passionate expressions of de-
votion, because they reminded him of his own lost
youth. He understood how irresistible must have been
the force of such a love; and he trembled to speculate
as to the result.
"Here," said Noel, " is another; not one of those in-
terminable epistles from which I have read you frag-
ments, but a simple billet. It is dated from Venice at
the beginning of May; it is short and decisive.
"' Dear Valerie,—
"' Thy response is more favorable than I dared to
hope for. The project I have conceived is now prac-
ticable. I begin to feel the approach of calmness and
security. Your son shall bear my name. I shall not
be obliged to separate myself from him. He shall be
reared near me, in my house, under my eyes, on my
knees, in my arms. Shall I have strength to bear this
excess of happiness?
"' I set out to-morrow for Naples, from whence I
shall write to you at length; although, whatever may
happen, though I should sacrifice the important inter-
ests confided to me, I shall be in Paris at the solemn


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
65
hour. My presence will double your courage; my love
shall diminish thy sufferings.'"
"Pardon me for interrupting you, Noel," said Pere
Tabaret, "do you know what grave affairs detained
your father abroad?"
"My father, my old friend," replied the advocate,
"was, in spite of his youth, one of the friends, one of
tiiw confidants, of Charles X.; and he had been charged
by him with a secret mission to Italy. My father is the
Count Rheteau de Commarin." —^
"Whew!" exclaimed the old fellow; and between his
teeth, the better to engrave the name upon his memory,
he repeated several times, " Rheteau de Commarin."
Noel held his peace. Having controlled his resent-
ment, he seemed buried in reflection, as if seeking the
means of executing his unalterable determination to re-
pair the wrong he had sustained.
"In the middle of the month of May," continued he,
"my father writes again, this time from Naples. Does
it not appear incredible that a man of prudence, sense,
a dignified diplomatist, a gentleman, should dare, even
in the eagerness of insensate passion, to confide to paper
this most monstrous project? Listen!
"' My Adored,—
"' Germain, my faithful valet de chambre, will hand
you this letter. I have despatched him to Normandy,
charged with a commission of the most delicate nature.
He is one of those servitors who may be trusted im-
plicitly.
"' The time has come when you must learn the na-
ture of my project touching our son. In three weeks,
at the latest I shall be in Paris.
"' Here is what I have resolved.
"' The two infants will be entrusted to two nurses


66 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
of Normandy, where my estates are situated. One of
these women, selected and instructed by Germain, will
be in our interests; to her charge, my Valerie, our child
is to be confided. These two women shall leave Paris
the same day, Germain accompanying her who has the
son of the countess.
An accident, arranged in advance, will compel
these two women to pass one night on the road. An-
other chance, brought about by Germain, will force
them to sleep in the same inn,—in the same chamber!
"' During the night, the nurse entrusted with your
child will change the infants in their cradles.
"' I have foreseen and arranged every thing, even
as I now explain it to you. Every precaution has been
taken to prevent our secret from escaping. Germain is
charged to procure, while in Paris, a cradle and cloth-
ing for your infant precisely similar to that of the coun-
tess's. Assist him with your advice.
"' Your maternal heart, sweet Valerie, may bleed at
thought of being deprived of your infant. Console your-
self for the loss of his innocent caresses, by dreaming
of the station secured to him by your sacrifice. What
excess of maternal tenderness can serve him as power-
fully as this separation? As to the other. I know your
tenderness of heart. You will love him for his father's
sake; and the affection you bestow on him will prove
your devotion to me. And he will have nothing to com-
plain of. Knowing nothing, he shall have nothing to
regret; and all that money and influence can secure, in
his position, he shall have.
"' Do not argue with me that this attempt is crimi-
nal. No, my well beloved, no. The success of our plan
depends upon so many coincidences, independent of our
will, that should they unite, we may assure ourselves
the hand of Providence favors our design. If success
crowns our wishes, it will be because heaven has decreed
it.
"'I have hope!'"
"Just what I thought." murmured Pere Tabaret.
"And the wretched man," cried Noel, "dares to in-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
67
voke the aid of Providence! He would make heaven his
accomplice!"
"But your mother," demanded the old fellow,—
"pardon, I would say Madame Gerdy,—how did she
receive this proposition?"
"She would appear to have rejected it, at first, for
here are twenty pages of eloquent persuasion from the
count, urging her to agree to it. Oh, this woman!"
"My son," said Pere Tabaret, softly, "let us not be
unjust. Why direct all your resentment against Ma-
dame Gerdy? To me, the count seems far more deserv-
ing of your anger."
"True," interrupted Noel, with a certain degree of
violence,—" true, the count is culpable. He is the au-
thor of an infamous conspiracy; yet I am not inspired
by a sense of hatred against him. He has committed a
crime, but has passion to excuse it. Moreover, he has
not deceived me every hour of my life, by enacting a
lie, as this miserable woman has, for thirty years. And,
more than all, his punishment has been so cruel, that I
can even now pardon the injury he has done me, and
weep for the suffering it has entailed."
"Ah! he has been punished?" interrogated the old
fellow.
"Yes, fearfully; how you shall learn. But allow me
to continue. Towards the end of May, or more prob-
ably, during the first days of June, the count must have
arrived in Paris; for the correspondence ceases. It
would seem, that, after his meeting with Madame
Gerdy, the final arrangements of the conspiracy were
delayed by some obstacle. Here is a billet, relieving all
uncertainty on the subject. On the day it was written,
the count was on service at the Tuileries, and unable to
leave his post. He has written it even in the king's cabi-


68 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
net, on the king's paper; see the royal arms! The bar-
gain has been concluded; the woman who has consented
to become the instrument of his project, is in Paris, of
which he acquaints his mistress.
"' Dear Valerie,—
"' Germain announces to me the arrival of your
son's nurse,—your son, our son. She will present her-
self at your house during the day. She is to be depended
upon. A magnificent recompense is the price of her dis-
cretion. She has been given to understand that you are
ignorant of the proposed exchange of children; there-
fore say nothing to her that may undeceive her on that
point. I wish to charge myself with the sole respon-
sibility of the deed. It is the most prudent course. This
woman is of Normandy. She was born on our lands
and in some sort in our house. Her husband is an hon-
est mariner. Her name is Claudine Lerouge.
"' Be of good courage, my love! I am exacting from
you the greatest sacrifice that can be made by woman;
and I appreciate the devotion that foregoes a mother's
happiness for thy lover's sake. There is no longer a
doubt that heaven is protecting us. All smiles. Here-
after everything depends upon our address, our pru-
dence. I feel that we shall succeed!'"
On one point, at least Pere Tabaret was sufficiently
enlightened. The researches into the past life of the
Widow Lerouge were anticipated. He could not re-
strain an exclamation, " At last!" of satisfaction, which
fortunately escaped Noel.
"This note," said the advocate, " closes the Count de
Commarin's correspondence."
"What!" exclaimed the old fellow, " you are in pos-
session of nothing more?"
"I have yet ten lines, written many years later, which
certainly have some weight, but after all offer only
moral proof."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
69
"What a misfortune!" murmured Pere Tabaret.
Noel replaced on his bureau the letters which were in
his hand, and turning towards his old friend, looked at
him steadily.
"Suppose," he said slowly, and emphasizing every
syllable,—" suppose that all my sources of information
end here. Admit, for a moment, that I know nothing
more than you do now. What is your advice?"
Pere Tabaret paused some minutes before answering;
he was weighing the probabilities resulting from the
count's letters.
"For my own part," said he at length, " I believe on
my soul you are not the son of Madame Gerdy."
"And you be'ieve rightly!" answered the advocate
forcibly. "You think, do you not, that, after reading
these letters, I ought to have seen and questioned Clau-
dine? You will say this poor woman who nursed me
must have loved me; that she must have suffered some
remorse for her part in the horrible injustice of which
I was the victim? Well, I have seen her. I have ques-
tioned her; and she has confessed all. She was only
too glad to do so. The thought of her complicity tor-
mented her. It was a weight of guilt too heavy for her
age to bear; and she told me all. The count's scheme,
simply and yet ingeniously conceived, succeeded with-
out any effort; and I, poor helpless infant! when but
three days old was thus betrayed, despoiled, and disin-
herited by my unnatural father and his unworthy mis-
tress. Poor Claudine! remorse was dragging her to
the grave; and she promised me, with eagerness, her
testimony on the day I should reclaim my rights."
"And she has gone, carrying her secret with her,"
murmured the old fellow in a tone of regret.
I have yet," said Noel, "one hope. Claudine had


7o THE WIDOW LEROUGE
in her possession several letters, written subsequently,
—some by the Count, some by Madame Gerdy,—letters
at once imprudent and explicit. They can be, without
question, recovered; and their evidence will be decisive.
I have had them in my hands: I have read them. Clau-
dine would have given them to me; but, fool that I was,
I did not take them."
The little hope that existed in that quarter no one
knew better than Pere Tabaret. To gain possession of
those very letters, the crime at Jonchere had been com-
mitted. The assassin had found and burned them, with
the other papers, in the little stove. The old amateur
was master of the situation.
"Knowing your affairs, my dear boy, almost as thor-
oughly as my own," said the old fellow after another
pause, " I am surprised the count should have forgotten
the promises he made in his letters to Madame Gerdy,
of promoting your fortune."
"He seems never to have remembered them, my old
friend."
"That," cried the old fellow indignantly, "is even
more infamous than all the rest!"
"Do not accuse my father," answered Noel gravely;
"his liaison with Madame Gerdy ceased long ago. I
have a faint recollection of a distinguished looking man
who came to see me at school. I am now persuaded
it was the count. But the rupture came."
"Naturally," said Pere Tabaret. "A fine gentle-
man!"
"Suspend your judgment,'' interrupted the advo-
cate. "M. de Commarin had good reason; his mistress
deceived him. He discovered her perfidy, and cast her
off with just indignation. The ten lines of which I
have spoken were written then."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 71
Noel searched a considerable time among the papers
scattered upon the table, and at length selected a letter
more faded and creased than the others. Judging from
its appearance of having been often folded and un-
folded, it had been read over and over many times; the
Writing was almost effaced in many places.
"In this," said he in a bitter tone, " Madame Gerdy
is no longer ' adored Valerie.'"
"' A cruel friend has, like a true friend, opened my
eyes. I doubted him, believing in you: but you have
been watched; and to-day, unhappily, I can doubt no
more. You, Valerie,—you to whom I have given more
than my life,—you have deceived me, and have been de-
ceiving me long. Unhappy man that I am, I can
no longer be certain that I am the father of your child.'"
"But this letter is a proof," cried Pere Tabaret,—" a
proof that cannot be overcome. Of what importance td
the count would be a doubt of his paternity, had he not
sacrificed his legitimate to his natural son? Yes, you
have said truly, my dear Noel, his chastisement has
been severe."
"Madame Gerdy," continued Noel, "attempted to
justify herself. She wrote to the count; but he returned
her letters unopened. She tried to see him, but in vain:
he would not grant her an interview. She knew that all
was over when the count's steward brought her a legal
settlement of fifteen thousand francs a year. Her son
had taken my place; and his mother had ruined me!"
A light knock at the door of the study interrupted
their conversation.
"Who is there?" demanded Noel without stirring.
"Monsieur," answered the servant from outside the
door, "madame wishes to speak to you."
The advocate appeared to hesitate.


72 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Go, my son," advised Pere Tabaret; "do not be
merciless."
Noel arose with visible reluctance, and passed into
Madame Gerdy's sleeping apartment.
"Poor boy!" thought Pere Tabaret when left alone.
"What a fatal discovery! and how he must feel it.
Noble young man! Brave, honest heart! In his inno-
cent simplicity, he sees not from whence the blow has
fallen. By good fortune, I am not so blind. I can see
for him; and, when he despairs of justice, I am con-
fident of obtaining it. Thanks to his information, I
can see it all now. An infant's intelligence might now
divine whose hand struck the blow that silenced the
impqrtant witness. How singular that he should as-
sist the discovery of this crime without knowing it!
How shall I proceed? Ah! if I could have one of those
letters for four and twenty hours. He probably has
counted them. I dare not ask for one; I would be com-
pelled to acknowledge my connection with the police.
Better run the risk, and take one, no matter which, that
I may verify the writing."
Pere Tabaret had hardly thrust one of the letters into
the depths of one of his capacious pockets, when the ad-
vocate returned.
He was one of those men of strongly formed charac-
ter whose self-control never deserts them. He was long
accustomed to dissimulation, that indispensable armor
of the ambitious.
Nothing in his manner betrayed what had taken place
between Madame Gerdy and himself. He was abso-
lutely as calm as, when seated in his arm-chair, he lis-
tened to the interminable nothings of his clients.
"Well," demanded Pere Tabaret, "how is she
now?"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 73
"Worse," answered Noel: "she is delirious. She
just now assailed me with the most injurious accusa-
tions, upbraiding me as the vilest of mankind. I am
persuaded she is out of her senses."
"Or losing them," murmured Pere Tabaret; " and I
think you ought to call in a physician."
"I am going in search of one," answered Noel.
The advocate resumed his seat before his bureau, and
re-arranged, according to their dates, the scattered
letters. He seemed to have forgotten that he was
wanting advice from his old friend; nor did he
appear desirous of renewing the conversation. This
was the farthest in the world from Pere Tabaret's
intention.
"The more I ponder over your history, my dear
Noel," commenced he, "the more I am bewildered. I
do not know what resolution I should adopt, were I in
your situation."
"Yes, my old friend," answered the advocate, " it is a
situation that might well perplex more profound .ex-
periences than yours."
The amateur repressed with difficulty the smile, which
for an instant appeared upon his lips.
"I confess it humbly," said he, taking pleasure in as-
suming an air of innocence. "But have you done any
thing yet? Your first move should have been to de-
mand an explanation of Madame Gerdy."
Noel made a startled movement, which was unno-
ticed by Pere Tabaret, pre-occupied as he was in trying
to give the turn he desired to the conversation.
"It was by that," answered Noel, " I began."
"Well, what did she say?"
"What could she say? Was she not overwhelmed by
the discovery?"


74
THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"What I did she not attempt to exculpate herself?"
"Oh, yes," sneered Noel, " she attempted; she is ac-
customed to attempt the impossible, of course. She pre-
tended to explain the correspondence. She told me, I
know not how many absurd falsehoods."
The advocate finished gathering up his letters, with-
out seeming to perceive the abstraction, tied them care-
fully, and replaced them in the secret drawer.
"Yes," continued he, rising and shutting up his
bureau, as if trying by the movement to calm his anger,
—" yes, she attempted to make me believe the exchange
had never taken place,—no easy matter, considering the
proofs I hold. This is the occasion of her sickness. The
idea that her son, whom she adores, should be obliged to
restore to me the name and fortune of which he robbed
me broke her heart. She could see me suffer the most
cruel privations; but she could not bear the thought of
her son's displacement. Rather than I should hurt a
hair of his head, she would consign me to the bottomless
pit."
"She has probably acquainted the count with your
discovery," said Pere Tabaret, pursuing his idea.
"Hardly; for the count has been absent from Paris
more than a month, and is not expected to return until
the end of the week."
"How do you know that?"
"I called at the house, as I wished to see and speak
with him."
"You?"
"Yes. Do you think I shall not reclaim my own? Do
you imagine that I am the man to be robbed, spoiled,
and betrayed with impunity? No, I have rights; and
I shall make them good. What consideration with-
holds me from lifting up my voice and proclaiming my


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 75
wrongs? I shall claim my rights. Do you think that
surprising?"
"No, certainly, my friend; then you have visited M.
de Commarin's house?"
"Oh! I did not adopt this resolution immediately,"
continued Noel. "My discovery made me at first al-
most lose my senses. A thousand opposing sentiments
agitated me. At one moment, my fury blinded me; the
next, my courage deserted me. I would, and I would
not. I was undecided, uncertain, wild. The eclat that
must be occasioned by the publicity of such an affair
terrified me. I longed to recover,—I will recover my
name; but I would at the same time preserve that noble
name from stain. I would, if possible, find a means of
conciliating all parties concerned, without publicity and
without scandal."
"You decided?"
"Yes, after a struggle of fifteen days,—fifteen days
of torture, of anguish! Ah! what I suffered in that time!
I neglected my business, being unable to fix my mind
upon any kind of work. During the day, I tried by
incessant action to fatigue my body, that at night I
might find forgetfulness in sleep. Vain hope: since I
found those ill-omened letters, I have not slept an hour."
From time to time, Pere Tabaret silently consulted
his watch.
"M. Daburon will be asleep," thought he.
"One morning," continued Noel, "after a night of
rage, I determined to end all uncertainty. I was in that
desperate state of mind, in which the gambler, after
successive losses, throws upon the board his last re-
maining coin. I called a carriage, and, with a beating
heart, gave the order, 'To the Hotel de Commarin,
Faubourg St. Germain.'"


76 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The old amateur allowed a sigh of impatienct to
escape him.
"It is one of the most magnificent houses in Paris,"
continued Noel,—" a princely dwelling, worthy the
representation of an illustrious family,—almost a pal-
ace. Right and left of the vast courtyard are the stables,
where twenty horses of price are standing in reserve for
common use. At the back rises the grand facade of the
main building, majestic and severe, with its sculptured
pediment, its noble portico, and its double flight of
marble steps. Behind the house extends a large garden,
or rather a park, shaded by the oldest trees, perhaps,
in Paris."
/' This enthusiastic description sorely tested Pere Tab-
aret's patience; but he did not venture to interrupt Noel
,'. by a question. An indiscreet word might betray him,
and reveal his relation with the bureau of investigation.
"Standing before the dwelling of my ancestors," con-
tinued Noel, "you cannot comprehend the excess of
my emotion. Here, said I, is the house in which I was
born. This is the home in which I should have been
(reared; and, above all, this is the spot where I should
reign to-day, whereon I stand an outcast and a stranger,
devoured by the sad and bitter memories, of which ban-
ished men have died. I compared my brother's brill-
iant destinies with my sad and laborious career; and my
indignation well nigh overmastered reason. The mad
impulse stirred me to force the doors, to rush into the
grand salon, and drive out the intruder,—the son of
Madame Gerdy,—who has taken the place of the son
of the Countess de Commarin! Out, usurper, out of
this. I am the master here. The propriety of legal
means at once recurred to my distracted mind however,
and restrained me. Once more I stood before the habi-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 77
tation of my fathers. How I love its old sculptures, its
grand old trees, its shaded walks, worn by the feet of
my poor mother! I love all, even to the proud es-
cutcheon, frowning above the principal doorway, fling-
ing its defiance to the theories of this age of levellers."
This last phrase conflicted so directly with the code
of opinions habitual to Noel, that Pere Tabaret was
obliged to turn aside, to conceal his amusement.
"Poor humanity I" thought he; "he is already the
grand seigneur."
"On presenting myself," continued the advocate, " I
demanded to see the Count de Commarin. A Swiss por-
ter, in grand livery, answered, the count was traveling,
but that the viscount was at home. This ran counter to
my designs; but I was embarked; so I insisted on speak-
ing to the son in default of the father. The Swiss por-
ter stared at me with astonishment. He had evidently
seen me alight from a hired carriage, and so deliber-
ated for some moments as to whether I was not too in-
significant a person to have the honor of being admitted
to visit the viscount."
"But tell me, have you seen him?" asked Pere
Tabaret, unable to restrain his impatience.
"Of course, immediately," replied the advocate in a
tone of bitter raillery. "Could the examination, think
you, result otherwise than in my favor? No. My white
cravat and black costume produced their natural effect.
The Swiss porter entrusted me to the guidance of a
chasseur with a plumed hat, who, leading me across
the court to. a superb vestibule, transferred me to the
care of a lackey; who, in company with five or six
others, was lolling upon a bench. This fine gentleman
led me up a spacious staircase, wide enough for a car-
riage to ascend, and preceded me along an extensive


78 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
picture gallery, guided me across a vast apartment, of
which the furniture was shrouded in sombre coverings,
and finally delivered me into the hands of the valet de
chambre of Albert de Commarin; that is to say, the
man who bears my name."
"I understand, I understand."
"I had passed an inspection; now I had to undergo
an examination. M. Albert's valet desired to be in-
formed who I was, whence I came, and what I wanted,
what was my profession, and all the rest. I answered
simply, that I was unknown to the viscount; but it was
absolutely necessary I should converse with him for five
minutes upon an affair of the most urgent nature. I
waited more than a quarter of an hour, when he reap-
peared. His master had graciously deigned to receive
me.
1 It was easy to perceive that his reception rankled in
the advocate's breast. He could not forgive Albert his
lackeys and his valet de chambre. He forgot the words
of the illustrious duke, who said, " I pay my valets for
being insolent, to save myself the trouble." Pere Ta-
baret was a little surprised at his young friend's bitter-
ness, in speaking of these trivial details.
"Can it be true " thought he, " that the arrogance of
lackeys is the secret of the people's hatred of the aris-
tocracy?"
"I was ushered into a small salon," continued Noel,
"simply furnished, the only ornaments of which were
weapons. These, ranged against the walls, were of all
times and countries. Never have I seen in so small a
space so many muskets, arquebusses, pistols, swords,
sabres, and foils: one might have imagined himself in
the arsenal of a maitre de armes."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 79
The weapon used by the Widow Lerouge's assassin
naturally recurred to the old fellow's memory.
"The viscount," continued Noel, speaking slowly,
"was half lying on the divan when I entered. He was
dressed in a jacket and pantaloons of velvet, and had
around his neck an immense scarf of white silk. I do
not cherish resentment against this young man. He
has never to his knowledge injured me. He had no
share in his parent's crime. I am therefore able to speak
of him with justice. He is handsome, has a noble air,
and carries gracefully the name which does not belong
to him. He is about my height, of the same brown
complexion, and would resemble me, perhaps, if he did
not wear a beard. Yet he appears at least five years
younger; but this is readily explained, he has neither
worked nor suffered. «He is one of the fortunate ones of
the earth, who traverse life's road on such soft cushions
that they are never injured by the jolting of the car-
riage. On seeing me, he arose and saluted me gra-
ciously."
"You must have been dreadfully excited."
"Less than I am at this moment: remember, I was
fifteen days preparing for this interview; and fifteen
days of mental torture exhausts one's emotions. I an-
swered the question I saw upon his lips. 'Monsieur,'
said I, ' you do not know me; but that is of little con-
sequence. I come to you, charged with a very grave, a
very sad mission, which not only interests you, but
touches the honor of the name you bear.' Without doubt
he did not believe me; for, in a tone of the coolest im-
pertinence, he asked me, 'Shall you be long?' I an-
swered as coolly, ' Yes.'"
"Pray," said Pere Tabaret, becoming very attentive,


8o THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"do not omit a single detail; it may be very important,
you understand."
"The viscount," continued Noel, "appeared much
disquieted. At length he said courteously, ' My time is
hardly at my own disposal this morning. I am at this
hour engaged to call upon my fiancee, Mademoiselle
d'Arlanges. Can we not postpone this conversation ?'"
"Good! another woman," said the old fellow to him-
self.
"I answered the viscount, that an explanation would
admit of no delay; and, as I saw him prepare to dis-
miss me, I drew from my pocket the count's correspond-
ence, and presented to him one of the letters. On rec-
ognizing his father's handwriting, he became more
tractable, declared himself at my service, and demanded
permission to write a word of apology to the lady by
whom he was expected. Having written the note
hastily, he handed it to his valet, and ordered him to
send it to Mademoiselle d'Arlanges immediately; then,
opening the door of the adjoining apartment, his li-
brary, he requested me to enter."
"One word," interrupted the old fellow; "was he
troubled on seeing the letters?"
"Not the least in the world. After closing the door,
he handed me a chair, and, seating himself, said,' Now,
monsieur, explain yourself.' I was fully prepared for
the situation, and decided to strike a grand coup.
"' Monsieur,' said I, 'my mission is painful. The
facts I am about to reveal to you are incredible. I be-
seech you, do not interrupt me, and do not answer me
until you have read the letters I am about to show
you.' He regarded me with an air of extreme surprise,
and answered, 'Speak! I can hear all.' I stood up.
'Monsieur,' said I, 'I must inform ycu that you are


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 81
not the legitimate son of M. de Commarin, as this cor-
respondence will prove to you. The legitimate son ex-
ists; and he it is who sends me.' I kept my eyes on his
while speaking; and I saw there a passing gleam of
fury: for a moment I expected he was about to spring
at my throat. He spoke quickly. 'The letters,' said he
in a short tone. I handed them to him."
"How," cried Pere Tabaret, " these letters—the true
ones? How imprudent!"
"And why?"
"If he had—I don't know; but—" the old fellow
hesitated. The advocate leaned his powerful hand upon
the old man's shoulder.
"I was there," said he in a hollow tone; " and I prom-
ise you the letters were in no danger."
Noel's features assumed such a sudden expression of
ferocity that the old fellow was terrified, and recoiled in-
stinctively.
"He would have killed him," thought he.
The advocate resumed.
"That which I have done for you this evening, my
friend, I did for the viscount. I obviated, at least for
the moment the necessity of reading all of these hun-
dred and fifty-six letters, by directing his attention to
those marked with a cross, and to the passages of most
especial importance, indicated with a red pencil."
"It was an abridgement of his penance," said Pere
Tabaret.
"He was seated," continued Noel, "before a little
table, too fragile even to lean upon. I was resting
against the mantelpiece. I followed his slightest move-
ments; and I scanned his features closely. Never in my
life have I seen so sad a spectacle. I shall never forget
it, were I to live a thousand years. In less than five min-


82 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
utes his face changed to a degree that his own valet
would not have recognized him. He held his handker-
chief in his hand, with which from time to time me-
chanically he wiped his lips;' and, as he read, the lips
became as white as the handkerchief. Large drops of
sweat stood upon his forehead; and his eyes became
dull and clouded, as if a film had covered them: but not
an exclamation, not a sign, not a groan, escaped him,
not even a gesture. At one moment, I felt such pity
for him that I was almost on the point of snatching the
letters from his hands, throwing them into the fire, and
taking him in my arms, crying, 'No, you are my
brother! Forget all; let us remain each one in his
place! Let us love one another.'"
Pere Tabaret took Noel's hand, and pressed it
.
"Ah!" cried he, " I recognize my generous boy."
"If I have not done this, my friend, it is because I
said to myself, 'These letters burned, would he recog-
nize me as his brother?'"
"Ay!" sighed Pere Tabaret, "it is true."
"In about half an hour, he had finished reading: he
arose, and facing me directly, said,' You are right, mon-
sieur. If these letters are really written by my father, as
I believe them to be, they distinctly prove that I am not
the son of the Countess de Commarin.' I did not an-
swer. 'Meanwhile,' continued he, 'these are only pre-
sumptions. Are you possessed of other proofs?' I ex-
pected, of course, a great many other objections. 'Ger-
main,' said I,' can speak.' He told me that Germain had
been dead for several years. Then I spoke of the nurse,
the Widow Lerouge. I explained how easily she could
be found and questioned, adding that she lived at la
Jonchere."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 83
"And what said he, Noel, to this? " demanded Pere
Tabaret anxiously.
"He preserved a moment's silence, and appeared to
reflect. All on a sudden he struck his forehead, and
said, 'I remember; I know her. I have accompanied
my father to her house three times, and have seen him
give her considerable sums of money.'"
"I remarked to him that this was yet another proof.
He made no answer, but went out as if to look for
something in the adjoining room. He returned after
some minutes,—
"' Monsieur, said he, can I meet the legitimate son of
the count, my father?' I answered, 'You see him be-
fore you, monsieur!' He bowed his head, and mur-
mured, 'I knew it was he.' He took my hand, and
added,' Brother, I bear you no grudge for the step you
have taken. All I ask of you is, to wait eight or ten
days, when my father will return. I will explain every
thing to him; and I promise you that justice shall be
done. I, on my side, lose everything,—name, position,
fortune, and, worse than all, I shall probably lose my
plighted bride, Mademoiselle d'Arlanges, who is dearer
to me than life itself. In exchange, it is true I shall find
a mother. I will labor to console her for your loss,
monsieur, and win her love by tenderness and devo-
tion.'"
"Did he really say that?"
"Almost word for word."
"Hypocrite!" growled the old fellow between his
teeth.
"What did you say?" asked Noel.
"I say that he is a fine young man; and I shall be
delighted to make his acquaintance."
• *>


84 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"I did not show him the letter referring to the rup-
ture," added Noel; " so that he is ignorant of Madame
Gerdy's misconduct. I voluntarily deprived myself of
this proof, rather than give him further pain."
"And now?"
"What am I to do? I am waiting the count's return.
I shall act more freely after hearing what he has to say.
To-morrow I shall demand permission from the tribu-
nals to examine the papers belonging to Claudine. If I
find the letters, I am saved; if not,—but, as I have told
you, I have taken no step since I knew of this assassi-
nation. Now, what is your advice?"
"The briefest counsel demands long reflection," re-
plied the old fellow, who was in haste to depart. "Alas 1
my poor boy, what a fate yours has been!"
"Terrible! and, in addition to all this distraction, I
have pecuniary embarrassments."
"How! you who spend nothing?"
"I have advanced large sums on mortgages. I might
make use of Madame Gerdy's fortune, which I have
hitherto used as my own; but no, I could not bring my-
self to it."
"You certainly ought not; but hold I I am glad you
spoke of money: you can render me a service."
"Very willingly; in what way?"
"I have in my secretary twelve or fifteen thousand
francs, which trouble me exceedingly, you can easily un-
derstand why. I am an old man, weak and defenceless.
If any one knew I had this money—"
"You are certainly imprudent in .running such a
risk," acknowledged the advocate.
"Then," said the old fellow, " to-morrow I will give
them to you to take care of."
But remembering he was about to put himself at M.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 85
Daburon's disposal, and that perhaps he might not be
free on the morrow, he said,—
"But no, I will not wait until to-morrow. This in-
fernal money shall not remain another night in my
keeping."
He darted out, and presently reappeared, holding in
his hand fifteen bank bills of a thousand francs each.
"If that is not sufficient for the present," said he,
handing them to Noel, " you can have more."
"I will give you a receipt," said the advocate.
"Time enough to-morrow."
"And if I die to-night?"
"Then," said the old fellow to himself, thinking of
his will, " some one else will have to be my heir. Good-
night!" said he aloud: "you have asked my advice;
I shall require the night for reflection. At present my
brain is whirling; I must go out into the air. If I go to
bed now, I shall have a horrible nightmare. Good-night,
my boy; patience and courage. Who knows whether at
this very hour Providence is not working for you?"
He went out; and Noel, leaving his door open,
listened to the sound of his footsteps as he descended the
stairs. Almost immediately the cry of, " Open, if you
please," and the banging of the door apprised him that
Pere Tabaret was in the street.
He waited a few minutes and refilled his lamp, then
took a small packet from one of his bureau drawers,
slipped into his pockets the bank bills given him by his
old friend, and quitted his study, of which he locked the
door. On the landing of the staircase he paused. He
listened so intently that even Madame Gerdy's moans
were audible to him. Hearing nothing else, he descended
on tiptoe. A minute later he was in the street.


86 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
CHAPTER V.
Communicating with Madame Gerdy's apartments
was a room on the ground floor, formerly a coach house,
but used by her as a lumber room. Here were heaped
together all the old rubbish of the household,—utensils
past service, articles become useless or cumbrous. Here
were also stored the provision of wood and coal for win-
ter fuel.
This old coach house had a small door opening on the
street, which had been nailed up many years ago; but
Noel had secretly repaired this door, provided it with
a lock, of which he kept the key, and by its means was
enabled to enter or leave the house at any hour, without
the porter's knowledge.
By this door the advocate went out, using the utmost
caution in opening and closing it.
When in the street, he remained a moment stationary,
as if hesitating which way to go. Then, turning his
steps towards the railway depot of St. Lazare, he hailed
a passing cab.
"Rue Faubourg Montmarte, at the corner of the Rue
Provence, and make haste," said Noel, entering the ve-
hicle.
At the spot named, the advocate alighted, and dis-
missed his coachman. Waiting until he had departed,
Noel turned into the Rue Provence, and, after walking
a few steps, rang the door-bell of one of the handsomest
houses in the street.
The door was immediately opened.
When Noel passed before the loge, the porter made
him a bow, at once respectful and patronizing,—one of


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 87
those salutations which Parisian porters reserve for pa-
trons of open hands and well-filled purses.
Arrived at the second floor, the advocate paused,
drew a key from his pocket, and entered as if at home.
At the sound of the key in the lock, a young and
pretty waiting woman, with a bold pair of eyes, ran
towards him.
"Ah, monsieur!" cried she.
This exclamation escaped her just loud enough to be
audible at the extremity of the apartment, and serve as
a signal, if needed. It was as if she cried, " Take care!"
Noel did not seem to remark it.
"Madame is there? " asked he.
"Yes, monsieur, and very angry, too, I can tell you.
This morning she wanted me to go in search of you. A
little while ago, she spoke of going herself. I have had
much difficulty, monsieur, in not disobeying your or-
ders."
"Very well," said the advocate.
"Madame is in the smoking room," continued the
soubrette. "I am making her a cup of tea. Will mon-
sieur have one?"
"Yes," replied Noel, " light me, Charlotte."
They passed through successively a magnificent din-
ing room, a splendid salon dore in the style of Louis the
XIV., and entered the smoking room.
This was a rather large apartment, of which the
ceiling was remarkably elevated. On entering it, the
visitor might easily imagine himself three thousand
miles from Paris, in the house of some opulent manda-
rin of the celestial empire of China. Furniture, carpets,'
hangings, pictures,—all had evidently been imported di-
rect from Hongkong or Shanghai.
A rick silk tapestry, representing highly colored fig-


88 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
ures, clothed the walls and hung before the doors. All
the empire of the sun and moon there defiled before the
spectator. Corpulent mandarins, disported themselves
in vermilion landscapes, or, surrounded by lanterns, lay
stupefied with opium, sleeping under their parasols.
Young girls, with almond shaped eyes elevated at the
outer corners, stumbled upon their diminutive feet,
swathed in bandalettes.
The carpet of a tissue, the secret of which is unknown
in Europe, was strewn with fruits and flowers, whose
perfect resemblance to natural objects might have de-
ceived a bee. On the silken canopy, which hid the ceil-
ing, some great artist of Pekin had painted fantastic
birds, opening on a ground of azure their wings of pur-
ple and of gold.
Slender rods of lacquer, encrusted with mother of
pearl, held the draperies in place, and marked the an-
gles of the apartment.
Two fantastic chests occupied one side of the room.
Furniture of capricious and incoherent forms, tables
with porcelain tops, and chiffoniers of precious woods
encumbered every recess or angle.
Then there were ornamental nic-nacs, purchased in
the bazars of Lien Tsi, le Tahan, from Sou-Tcheou, the
artistic city,—a thousand curiosities impossible and ex-
pensive, from the ivory chop stick, which take the place
of our forks, to the tea-cups of porcelain, thinner than
soap bubbles,—miracles of the reign of Kien Loung.
A divan, very large and very low, piled up with
cushions covered with tapestry similar to the hangings,
ran along the back of the room. There was no window;
but instead a large looking-glass, reaching from floor
to ceiling, was let into the wall, in front of which was
a double door of glass with movable panes. The space


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 89
between this glass door and the mirror was filled with
plants and rare exotics; which, being reflected in the
mirror, presented the optical illusion of a conserva-
tory.
The absent fireplace and chimney was replaced by
registers adroitly concealed, which maintained a tem-
perature in the apartment that seemed to make the flow-
ers blow upon the silk, truly harmonizing with the fur-
nishing of this luxurious abode.
When Noel entered, a young woman was lying on
the divan, smoking a cigarette. In spite of the tropical
heat, she was enveloped in great shawls of magnificent
cashmere.
She was petite, and united in her small figure all the
physical beauties in such perfection as only small women
can. Women who are above the medium height are
either essays, or errors of nature. If handsome, they in-
variably present some defect; like the work of a sculp-
tor, whose faults, unnoticed when presented in a statu-
ette, become glaring when exhibited in a colossal fig-
ure.
She was small; but her neck, her shoulders, and her
arms had the most exquisite contours. Her hands, small
and plump, even to the retrousse finger tips and rosy
nails, were of marvellous beauty, and seemed preciously
cared for. Her feet, encased in silken stockings almost
as thin as a cobweb, were a marvel; not that they re-
called the fabled foot which Cinderella thrust into the
glassy slipper; but that other foot,—more real, more
palpable, though less celebrated,—of which the fair
owner (the wife of a well-known banker) used to pre-
sent the model to her admirers in bronze or in marble.
Her face was not beautiful, nor even pretty: but her
features were such as one never forgets; for, at the first


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
glance, they startled the beholder like a flash of light-
ning. Her forehead was a little high, and her mouth
unmistakably large, notwithstanding the provoking
freshness of her lips. Her eyebrows seemed to have
been drawn with Chinese ink; but, unhappily the pencil
had been used too heavily; and they gave her an un-
pleasant expression when she frowned. In revenge for
these defects, her smooth complexion had a rich golden
pallor; and her black and velvety eyes possessed enor-
mous magnetic power. Her teeth were sound and of a
pearly brilliancy and whiteness; and her hair, of pro-
digious opulence, was black and waving, and glossy as
a raven's wing.
On perceiving Noel, as he drew aside the silken cur-
tain which served as a door, she half-arose and leaned
upon her elbow.
"So you have come at last?" said she in a tone of
vexation: " we ought to be very happy!"
The advocate was almost suffocated by the oppressive
temperature of the room.
"How warm it is!" said he; "it is enough to stifle
one!"
"Do you find it warm?" replied the young woman.
"Well, that shows the extent of my suffering! I am
shivering: but it's your fault; you know that waiting is
insupportable to me. It acts upon my nerves; and I have
waited for you since yesterday."
"It has been impossible for me to come," said Noel,—
"impossible!"
"You know perfectly well," continued the lady, " that
to-day was my settling day; and I have had quite a
number of bills to pay. The upholsterer came. Not a
sou to give him. The coachmaker sent his bill. No
money: call again! then this old swindler who holds my


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 91
note for three thousand francs,—he has been here, mak-
ing a frightful row! All this is agreeable, is it not?"
Noel bowed his head like a truant school-boy, under-
going the pedagogue's rebuke.
"It is but one day behind," murmured he.
"One day behind!" retorted the young woman;
"and is that nothing? A man who respects himself
may permit his own note to be protested, if he will; but
that of his mistress, never!"
"For what do you take me?" continued she, working
herself into a passion. "Do you forget that I receive no
consideration from you except money? Very well, since
I am to have nothing else, I will have that at all events;
and the day it is not forthcoming, I bid you good-by."
"My dear Juliette!—" began the advocate, gently.
"Oh, yes! that's all very fine; but I have heard it all
before," interrupted she. "Your dear Juliette! your
adored Juliette! and, as long as you are face to face
with Juliette, she is an angel, if she would allow you to
make a fool of her: but, no sooner have you turned your
back upon Juliette, than she is given to the winds; and
you never take the trouble even to remember that there
is such a person as Juliette!"
"How unjust you are!" replied Noel. "As if you
are not well assured that I am always thinking of you.
Have I not proved it to you a thousand times? Hold! I
am going to prove it to you again this instant."
So saying, he produced the small packet he had taken
from his bureau, and, opening it, showed her a hand-
some velvet casket.
"See!" said he, exultingly, " the bracelet you wished
for so much, eight days ago, at M. Beaugrau's."
Madame Juliette, without rising, held out her hand
to take the jewel case, and, opening it with the utmost


92 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
nonchalance, glanced at the magnificent bauble; then,
closing the casket, she threw it carelessly upon a little
table near her, saying, —
"It looked much prettier in the shop window."
"I am unfortunate, this evening," said the advocate,
apparently much mortified at the reception of his costly
present.
"Unfortunate, my friend? Indeed, how so?"
"I see plainly the bracelet does not please you."
"Oh, yes! it is very pretty; at all events, it will com-
plete the two dozen."
At this Noel almost lost patience: but he controlled
himself; and, as she was silent, he went on,—
"You exhibit little sign of gratification."
"Oh! indeed!" cried the lady. "I am not grateful
enough! I am not sufficiently profuse in my acknow-
ledgments, to please my generous benefactor? You
bring me a present, and expect instant payment. I am
to fill the house with cries of joy, and throw myself
upon my knees before your feet, calling you a great and
magnificent seigneur!"
Noel was unable this time to restrain a gesture of im-
patience; which Juliette perceived plainly enough, to
her great delight.
"Is that sufficient?" continued she. "Or must I call
Charlotte to admire this superb monument of your gen-
erosity? Shall I run down stairs to exhibit it to the por-
ter? shall I go into the kitchen and dazzle the eyes of my
cook, and ask her if I ought not to be happy in the pos-
session of a lover so unboundedly munificent?"
The advocate raised his shoulders like a philosopher,
unable to answer the jests of a child.
"A truce to these cutting witticisms," said he. "If


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
you have any complaint against me, better to say so
simply and seriously."
"So be it," said Juliette, quickly, changing her man-
ner. "Let us be serious. And, being so, let me tell you
it would have been better to have forgotten the bracelet,
and remembered the eight thousand francs of which I
have such pressing need." *
"I could not come."
"You might send; there are messengers at the street-
corners."
"If I have neither brought nor sent them, my dear
Juliette, it was because I did not have the amount. I
have trouble enough in getting a promise of it to-mor-
row. If I have the sum this evening, I owe it to a
chance upon which I could not have counted an hour
ago; and I have brought it to you to-night, at the risk
of compromising myself."
"Poor man!" said Juliette, in a tone of pity; then
incredulously, "do you dare to tell me you have had
difficulty in finding ten thousand francs,—you?"
"Yes," replied Noel, calmly, " I!"
The young woman looked at her lover, and burst into
a fit of laughter.
"You are superb in the role of poor young man!"
said Juliette scornfully.
"It is not a role," said Noel stolidly.
"What do you say?" exclaimed she; "but I see
what we are coming to. This amiable confession is the
preface. To-morrow you will be very much embar-
rassed ; and the day after to-morrow you will be ruined!
Avarice is the name of the complaint that afflicts you,
my friend. Do you not feel a pang of remorse for all the
money you have lavished upon me?"
"Selfish woman!" murmured Noel, angrily.


94 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Truly," continued the lady, "I pity you, unfortu-
nate lover! Shall I get up a subscription for you? In
your place, I should issue an appeal to the benevolent."
Noel lost his temper, in spite of his resolution.
"You think it a laughing matter?" asked he bitterly.
"Well, understand me, Juliette; I am at the end of my
expedients. I have exhausted my resources! I am
ruined!"
The eyes of the young woman brightened. She re-
garded her lover tenderly.
"Oh, if 'twas only true!" said she. "If I could only
believe you!"
The advocate was wounded to the heart.
"She believes me," thought he; " and she is glad: she
detests me."
He was deceived. Madame Juliette never loved him
so well as at that moment. The idea that he had loved
her to the extent of ruining himself for her, without'
even a reproach for her extravagance, almost trans-
ported her with joy. It was but for a moment, however.
She became immediately incredulous. The expression
of her eyes changed quickly.
"What a fool you must think me, to come with your
romantic stories of ruin, and expect me to believe them!
No, no, my friend; such men as you do not ruin them-
selves. It is your vain young coxcombs and your
drivelling old dotards who ruin themselves for their
mistresses. You are a very gay young spark; but you
never lose your senses. You are very grave and prudent,
and, above all, very strong."
"Not with you," murmured Noel.
"Pshaw! then leave me alone. You know well what
you are about. Instead of a heart, you have a calculating


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 95
machine. You have taken a fancy to me, and appraised
me. You have said to yourself,' I can afford to pay this
passion so much;' and you hold yourself to your word.
It is an investment, like any other, in which one re-
ceives a certain amount of interest agreed upon. You
are capable of all the folly and extravagance in the
world that does not go beyond your limit of four thou-
sand francs a month! If it runs twenty sous over the
amount fixed, you take up your heart and your hat, and
carry them somewhere else."
"It is true," answered Noel, coolly. "I know how to
count; and that accomplishment is very useful to me
now, since it enables me to know how and where I have
spent my fortune."
"Do you really know?" sneered Juliette.
"And I can tell you," continued he. "At first, you
were not exacting; but the appetite came with eating.
You wished for luxury; you had it; splendid furniture;
I gave it: extravagant toilettes, a house in the Rue
Provence, with a marble staircase in front, a carriage, a
pair of English horses: I responded, I denied you noth-
ing. You had every thing you desired. I speak not of a
thousand fantasies. I include neither this Chinese cabi-
net nor the two dozen bracelets. The total is four hun-
dred thousand francs!"
"Are you sure?"
"As one can be who has had that amount, and has
it no longer."
"Four hundred thousand francs, just? Are there no
centimes?"
"No."
"There, my dear friend, I will present you with the
bills duly receipted; and you will be satisfied."


96 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The entrance of the waiting woman with the tea-tray
interrupted this amorous duet, of which Noel had ex-
perienced more than one repetition.
Madame Juliette Chaffour was a Parisienne. She
was born about 1839, in the highest apartment of a
house in the Faubourg Montmarte. Her mother was a
beauty of some note in her day. Her father was un-
known. Her infancy was a long alternation of beatings
and caresses, equally furious; and she was fed on sugar
plums, sour wine, and damaged fruit: so that her
stomach was as depraved as her intelligence. At twelve
years old, she was meagre as a nail, and green as a June
apple; and, as for her mental training, a strict moralist
would have considered her a precocious little wretch,
totally destitute of principle.
As she gave no promise of beauty, she was placed in
a store, to study the art and mystery of selling ribbons
and laces; when a wealthy and highly respectable gen-
tleman,—an old friend of her mamma's many years ago,
—accorded her his protection. This prudent old gen-
tleman was a connoisseur, and detected the promise of
charms, where others saw only indications of ugliness.
He sent his protege to a school, to receive a varnish of
education. Here she learned to read and write very
badly, to play the piano tolerably, and to waltz to such
perfection that she turned the head of a foreign am-
bassador, whom her old protector brought to see her at
one of his visits.
When the old gentleman came to take her from the
seminary, he found she had been taken away already,
by a young artist, who offered her half of every thing
he possessed; that is to say, nothing. At the end of three
months, she quitted the studio of her artistic admirer,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 97
with her entire wardrobe tied up in a cotton pocket
handkerchief.
During the four years which followed, she led a pre-
carious existence,—sometimes with little else to live
upon but Hope, which never wholly abandons a young
girl who knows she has good eyes. By turns she sunk
to the bottom, and again rose to the surface of the
stream down which she was being carried. But she was
reckless and imprudent. Twice had fortune in fresh
gloves come knocking at her door; and she had not the
sense to seize him by the skirt of his paletot.
With the assistance of a captain of a coasting vessel,
she managed to get an appearance at a small theatre,
and acquitted herself adroitly enough in the trifling
roles entrusted to her; when Noel, by the merest acci-
dent, encountered her. He loved her; and she became
his mistress.
The advocate did not displease her at first. She ad-
mired him for his polite manners, his distinguished air,
his learning, his knowledge of the world, his contempt
for all that was unworthy, and, above all, for his un-
alterable patience, which nothing could tire. Soon, how-
ever, she began to discover qualities to her less admira-
ble. He was not amusing. He never made her laugh.
He absolutely refused to accompany her to any of the
numerous places of amusement where gaiety puts on
her holiday garb and laughter reigns supreme. For ab-
solute lack of employment, she began to squander
money; and, in proportion to the gratification of her ex-
travagant desires and the sacrifices made by her lover,
her aversion to him increased.
She rendered him the most miserable of men, and
treated him like a very dog; and this not from natural


98 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
badness of disposition, but from a firm belief in the pre-
cept,—the only one ever taught her by her mamma,—
that a woman is beloved in proportion to the trouble she
causes and the mischief she does.
Juliette was not wicked; and she believed she had
much to complain of. The dream of her life was to be
loved in a way which she felt, but could scarcely have
explained. She had never been to her lover more than a
plaything. She understood this; and, as she was
naturally proud, the idea enraged her. She dreamed of
a lover who would be devoted enough to make a real
sacrifice for her,—who would descend to her level, in-
stead of attempting to raise her to his. She despaired
of meeting such a man.
Noel's extravagance, instead of melting her heart,
hardened it. She believed he was very rich, and actually
resented his liberality as the insolence of wealth; for,
strange to say, in spite of her extravagance, she cared
little for money. Noel would have been an immense
gainer by an outspoken frankness that would have
shown her clearly his situation. He lost her love by
the delicacy of his dissimulation, that left her ignorant
of the sacrifices he was making for her.
Noel adored Juliette. Until the fatal day he saw her,
he had been a sage, a model of prudence and integrity.
This, his first and only passion, burned him up; and,
from the disaster, he saved only appearances. The four
walls remained standing; but the interior of the edifice
was destroyed. Even heroes have their vulnerable parts.
Achilles was wounded in the heel. The most artfully
constructed armor has a joint somewhere. By Juliette,
Noel was assailable; and her entrance made way for
every thing. For her, in four years, this model young
man, this advocate of the immaculate reputation, this


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 99
austere moralist, had wasted not only his own fortune,
but Madame Gerdy's also.
He loved Juliette madly, without reflection, without
measure, with his eyes shut. Near her, he forgot all pru-
dence, and became reckless of consequences. In her
boudoir, he dropped his mask of habitual dissimula-
tion, and his vices displayed themselves at ease, as his
limbs in a bath.
He felt himself so powerless against her that he never
essayed to struggle. She possessed him. Once or twice
he had attempted to firmly oppose her caprices; but she
had made him pliable as the osier. Under the dark
glances of this girl, his strongest resolutions melted
more quickly than snow beneath the April sun. She
tortured him; but she had also the power to repay him
for all,—by a word, a smile, a single tear, or a caress.
Away from the enchantress, reason returned at inter-
vals; and, in his lucid moments, he said to himself,
"She does not love me. She is amusing herself with my
folly, and laughing at my infatuation." But her love
had taken such deep root in his heart that he could not
pluck it forth. He made himself a monster of jealousy,
to torture him still more, and was constantly occupied
in arguments within himself respecting her fidelity. But
he never had the courage to declare his suspicions. "I
should either have to leave her," thought he, "or ac-
cept every thing in the future." At the idea of a separa-
tion from her, he trembled, and felt his passion strong
enough to compel him to submit to the lowest indignity.
He preferred even his desolating doubts to a still more
dreadful certainty.
The presence of the maid who took a considerable
time in arranging the tea-table gave Noel an opportunity
to recover himself. He looked at Juliette; and his anger


ioo THE WIDOW LEROUGE
took flight. Already he began to fear he had been a lit-
tle cruel to her.
When Charlotte retired, he came and took a seat on
the divan beside his mistress, and attempted to put his
arms round her.
"Come," said he in a caressing tone, " you have been
angry enough for this evening. If I have done wrong,
you have punished me sufficiently. Make peace, and
embrace me." She repulsed him angrily, and said in a
dry tone,—
"Let me alone! How many times must I repeat, that
I am suffering from nervousness this evening."
"Suffer, my love? what ails you? shall I bring the
doctor?"
"There is no need. I know the nature of my malady.
It is called ennui; and the doctor cannot cure me."
Noel rose with a discouraged air, and took his place
at the other side of the tea-table, facing her. His resig-
nation bespoke how habituated he had become to these
rebuffs. Juliette snubbed him; but he returned always,
like the poor dog who lies in wait for the instant when
his caresses may not be inopportune.
"You have told me very often, during the last few
months, that you feel ennui. What have I done to
you?"
"Nothing."
"Well, why then "—?
"My life is nothing more than a long imprisonment,"
answered the young woman with flashing eyes. "Do
you think it very amusing to be shut up here all alone
until you come in, like a mute at a funeral? Look at
yourself,—sad, disagreeable, restless, suspicious, de-
voured by a prying jealousy!"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Your reception of me, my dear Juliette, this even-
ing," ventured Noel, " was enough to extinguish gaiety
and freeze good humor; and, as for my jealousy, one
fears where one loves."
"Thank you, monsieur. I am the occasion of your
sad looks and grave speeches! Go, then, and find an-
other woman expressly formed to suit your ideas, and,
if you cannot find her, have one made to order; and,
when you get her, then shut her up in a cave, and show
her to yourself once a day, after dinner, with the des-
sert, when the champagne is on the table. That's your
idea of happiness, is it?"
"I should have done better not to have come," mur-
mured the advocate.
"Indeed! That I might remain alone here, without
any thing to occupy me except a cigarette and a stupid
book, that I go to sleep over? Do you call this an ex-
istence, even, never to budge out of the house?"
"It is the life of all the honest women that I know,"
replied the advocate, dryly.
"Then I cannot compliment them on their enjoyment.
They merit all the respect they gain by being honest
women, if they have no more amusement than that.
Happily for me, however, I am not an honest woman;
although I might as well be, housed up more closely
than the wife of a Turk, with your sorrowful face for
my only distraction."
"You housed up? You live in a prison, you?"
"Yes, I!" continued Juliette, with eager opposition.
"Let us see. Have you ever brought one of your friends
here? No. Monsieur hides me. When have you offered
me your arm for a promenade? Never. Monsieur's dig-
nity would be sullied, if he were seen in my company. I


io2 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
have a carriage. Have you entered it three times? Per-
haps; but then you pulled up the blinds! I ride out
alone. I promenade alone."
"Always the same refrain," interrupted Noel, his an-
ger beginning to rise, "without ceasing these discon-
tented complainings, as if you had yet to learn the rea-
son why this state of things exists."
"I am not ignorant," pursued the young girl, "that
you blush for me. I know, at the same time, men who
carry higher crests than yours who willingly show them-
selves by the side of their mistresses. Monsieur trembles
for the fine name of Gerdy that I am tarnishing; whilst
the sons of the greatest families in France are not afraid
to proclaim their preferences to all the world."
This home-thrust enraged Noel, to the great delight
of Madame Chaffour.
"Enough of these recriminations!" cried he, rising.
"If I hide our relations, it is because I am constrained
to do so. Of what do you complain? You have unre-
strained liberty; and you use it, too, and so largely that
your actions altogether escape me. You accuse me of
creating a vacuum around you. I bring no friends to
visit you. Am I to blame for the circumstances of my
position? My friends have been accustomed to see me
in a home whose aspect speaks of modest competence,
not unrestrained extravagance. Can I bring them here,
to be astonished by your luxury, by this suite of apart-
ments,—a monument of my folly? Would they not in-
quire of me, from whom have I taken the money that
maintains this mad profusion?
"I may have a preference: granted; but I have no
right to throw away a fortune which is not my own.
The day it becomes known that my folly enables you
to pursue your career of extravagance, my future pros-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 103
pects are destroyed. What client would confide his in-
terests to an imbecile who permitted himself to be ruined
by the woman whose toilettes are the talk of Paris? I
am not a noble. I have neither an historical name to tar-
nish nor an immense fortune to lose. I am Noel Gerdy,
advocate. My reputation is all that I possess. It is a
false reputation, you will say. Be it so. Such as it is, it
is necessary to me; and I will endeavor to keep it."
Juliette knew Noel by heart. She saw that she had
gone far enough.
"My friend," said she, tenderly, "I do not wish to
pain you. You must be indulgent. I am horribly ner-
vous this evening."
This simple change of tone delighted the advocate,
and sufficed almost to calm his anger.
"You drive me mad with your injustice," said he.
"While I exhaust my imagination to find what can be
agreeable to you, you are perpetually attacking my
gravity; and forty-eight hours have not elapsed since
we were plunged in all the extravagance of the carnival.
To please you, I kept the fete of Shrove Tuesday like
a student. I took you to the theatre; I put on a domino,
and accompanied you to the ball at the opera, and even
invited two of my friends to sup with us."
"It was very gay indeed," answered the young girl,
making a wry face.
"So it seemed to me."
"Did it, indeed? Then you are not difficult to please.
We went to the Vaudeville, it is true, but separately, as
we always do,—I alone above, you below. At the ball,
you looked the very picture of misery; and, at the sup-
per-table, your friends were as melancholy as a pair of
owls. I obeyed your orders, by affecting hardly to know
you; and, by the way, although you drank like a sponge.


104 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
I could not see that you became a whit more cheerful,
even when you were drunk."
"A proof," interrupted Noel, " that we ought not to
force our tastes. Let us talk of something else."
He took a few steps in the room, and looked at his
watch.
"An hour gone already," said he. "My love, I must
leave you."
"How, already?"
"Yes, to my great regret: my mother is dangerously
sick."
He displayed, and counted on the table, the bankbills
given him by Pere Tabaret.
"My petite Juliette," said he, "here are not eight
thousand francs, but ten thousand. You will not see me
again for some days."
"You are going to leave Paris, then?"
"No; but my entire time will be absorbed by an affair
of immense importance. If I succeed in my undertak-
ing, mignonne, our future happiness is assured; and you
will soon see how well I love you!"
"Oh, my dear Noel, tell me what it is."
"I cannot, now."
"Tell me, I beseech you," pleaded the young girl,
hanging round his neck, raising herself upon the points
of her toes to approach her lips to his. The advocate
embraced her; and his resolution seemed to waver.
"No," said he, at length, "I am serious, I cannot.
Of what use to awaken in you hopes that may never be
realized? Now, my cherished, hear me well. Whatever
may happen, understand, you must under no pretext
whatever again come near my house, as you had once
the imprudence to do. Do not even write to me. By dis-
obeying, you may do me an irreparable injury. If any


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 105
accident occurs, send for me by this old extortioner,
Clergeot. I ought to have a visit from him to-morrow,
or the day after; he holds notes of mine."
Juliette recoiled, menacing Noel with a mutinous
gesture.
"You will not tell me any thing? " insisted she.
"Not this evening; but shortly I will tell you every
thing," replied the advocate embarrassed by the pierc-
ing glances of her dark eyes.
"Always some mystery!" cried Juliette, piqued at
the want of success attending her blandishments.
"This will be the last, I swear to you!"
"Noel, my good man," said the young girl in a seri-
ous tone, " you are hiding something from me: I know
it; I read it in your face. For several days,—how I
cannot precisely explain,—you have been completely
changed."
"I swear to you, Juliette—"
"No, swear nothing; I should not believe you. Only
remember, no attempt at deceiving me, I forewarn you.
I am a woman to revenge myself."
The advocate evidently was ill at ease.
"The affair in question," stammered he, " can as well
fail as succeed."
"Enough!" interrupted Juliette; " your will shall be
obeyed. I promise that. All right, monsieur. Good-
night. I am going to bed."
The door was not shut upon Noel when Charlotte
was installed on the divan, near her mistress. Had the
advocate been listening at the door, he would have heard
Madame Juliette say,—
"What a scene! No, Charlotte, I can endure him no
longer. I am afraid of him. He is capable of killing
me! I can see it in his glance."


io6 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The soubrette vainly tried to defend Noel; but her
mistress did not listen. She murmured,—
"Why does he absent himself? and what is he plot-
ting? Some mischief, I am sure. An absence of eight
days! It is suspicious. Can he by any chance be going
to be married? Ah! if I knew it. You weary me to
death, my good Noel, with your gravity and your jeal-
ousy; and I am determined to break with you one of
these fine mornings; but I cannot permit you to quit me
first. I cannot allow you to get married, and dismiss me.
No, no, my mysterious friend, I must have some in-
formation about your business of immense importance."
But Noel did not listen at the door. He left the house
in haste, descended the Rue Provence as quickly as pos-
sible, gained the Rue St. Lazare, and entered as he had
departed,—by the secret door. He had hardly reached
his study, when the nurse knocked at the door.
"Monsieur," said the woman, "in the name of
heaven, answer me!"
He opened the door, and said with impatience,
"What is know?"
"Monsieur," stammered the servant in tears, "this is
the third time I have called, and you have not answered.
Come, I implore you. I am afraid madame is dying!"
He followed the nurse to Madame Gerdy's chamber.
He must have found her terribly changed; for he could
not restrain a movement of terror.
The sick woman struggled painfully beneath her cov-
erings. Her face was of a livid paleness, as though
there was not a drop of blood in her veins; and her eyes,
which glittered with a sombre fire, seemed covered with
a film. Her hair, loose and disordered, falling over her
cheeks and upon her shoulders, contributed to her wild
appearance. She uttered from time to time a groan


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 107
hardly audible, or murmured unintelligible words. At
times, a fiercer pang than common forced from her a
cry of anguish. She did not recognize Noel.
"You see, monsieur," said the nurse.
"Yes. Who would have believed her malady could
advance so rapidly? Quick, run to Dr. Herve! he will
come immediately, when you tell him it is for me."
And he seated himself in the arm-chair, facing the
sick woman.
Doctor Herve was one of Noel's friends,—an old
school-fellow, his companion of the Quartier Latin, in
his student days. The doctor's history differed in noth-
ing from that of most young men, who, without fortune,
friends, or influence, enter upon the practice of the most
difficult, the most hazardous of professions in Paris.
A man of remarkable courage and self-reliance, con-
scious of possessing superior talent, Herve determined
neither to exile himself in a country village, nor place
himself under the control of some unprincipled dealer
in drugs, as many of his companions were reduced to
the necessity of doing, to gain a bare subsistence. "I
will remain in Paris," said he to himself; " I will there
become celebrated. I shall be surgeon-in-chief of the
hospital, and wear the cross of the legion of honor."
To enter upon this path of thorns, leading to an arch
of triumph, the future academician ran himself twenty
thousand francs in debt to furnish a small office. Here,
armed with a patience which nothing could fatigue, an
iron resolution that nothing could subdue, he struggled
and waited. Only those who have experienced it can
understand what sufferings are endured by the poor,
proud man, who waits in a black coat, freshly shaven,
with smiling lips, while he is starving of hunger. The
refinements of civilization have inaugurated punish-


io8
THE WIDOW LEROUGE
ments compared to which the torture practised on his
victim by the savage Indian is mercy.
The unknown physician must begin by attending the
sick beds of the poor who cannot pay him, becoming
known to the mass of human beings who take advan-
tage of the needs of their fellow-men. He is called in by
a citizen of the better class, to save the expense of em-
ploying a more thriving practitioner. The sick man is
profuse in promises, while he is in danger; but, when
cured, he recovers the use of his faculties and forgets
the doctor's fee.
After seven years of heroic perseverence, Herve ob-
tained at last a circle of patients who paid his fees. Dur-
ing this time, he had lived and paid the exorbitant in-
terest of his debt; but he had succeeded at last. Three
or four pamphlets and a prize won without much in-
trigue, attracted public attention to him. He became the
great, the famous physician of Paris.
But he is no longer the brave young enthusiast, full
of the faith and hope that attended him in his visits to
the poor, whose lives he saved without other payment
than their prayers. He comes now to the rich man's
sick bed, stronger and more self-reliant than ever, it is
true, but neither hoping for nor rejoicing in success. He
had used up those feelings in the days when he had not
wherewith to pay for his dinner. For his great fortune
in the time to come, he had paid too dearly in the past;
and now to attain success is to take a revenge. At thirty-
five, he is blase', filled with disgust at the deceptions of
the world ana believing in nothing. Under the appear-
ance of universal benevolence, he conceals universal
scorn. His finesse, sharpened by the grindstone of ad-
versity, has become mischievous. And, while he sees
through all disguises worn by others, he hides his pene-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
tration carefully under a mask of cheerful good-nature
and jovial lightness.
But he was good, he was devout, and he loved his
friends.
He arrived, hardly dressed, so great had been his
haste. His first word on entering was,—
"What is the matter with him?"
Noel pressed his hand in silence, and pointed to the
bed.
In less than a minute, the doctor completed his ex-
amination of the sick woman, and returned to his friend.
"What has happened to her?" demanded he shortly.
"It is necessary I should know."
The advocate started at this question.
"Know what? " stammered he.
"All," answered Herve. "This is a case of encepha-
lite. I cannot be mistaken in the symptoms. It is an
uncommon malady, and generally fatal. Even when the
life of the patient is saved, the functions of the brain
usually remain arrested. Who can have occasioned this?
There is no local injury to the brain or its bony cover-
ing. The mischief has been caused by some violent
emotion of the soul,—a shock, the intelligence of some
catastrophe!"
Noel interrupted his friend by a gesture, and drew
him into the embrasure of the window.
"Yes, my friend," said he in a low tone, " Madame
Gerdy has experienced great mental suffering. She has
been tortured by remorse for crime, and apprehension
of discovery. Listen, Herve. I will confide to your
honor and our friendship a secret. Madame Gerdy is
not my mother. She has despoiled me, to enrich her
son with my fortune and my name. Three weeks have
elapsed since my discovery of this unworthy fraud. This


no
THE WIDOW LEROUGE
discovery was the shock you have suspected. Since
then, she has been dying minute by minute."
The advocate expected some exclamations of aston-
ishment, some questions regarding the particulars of
this singular history, from his friend; but the doctor
received the explanation without remark, as a simple
statement, indispensable to his understanding the case.
"Three weeks," murmured he; " that explains every
thing. Has she appeared to suffer much during the
time?"
"She complained of violent pains in the head, dim-
ness of sight, and a noise as of the surging of water
in her ears; but do not conceal any thing from me,
Herve; is there serious danger?"
"So serious, my friend, that I am undertaking a
hopeless task in attempting a cure."
"Ah! good heaven!"
"You asked for the truth, my friend; and I have had
the courage to answer, because you tell me this poor
woman is not your mother. Nothing short of a miracle
can save her; but this miracle we may prepare for. And
now to work."
CHAPTER VI.
Eleven o'clock was striking at the Terminus of
St. Lazare, when Pere Tabaret left his house, stunned
and bewildered by the flood of information so unex-
pectedly poured upon him. Having been obliged to re-
strain himself while in Noel's presence, his sudden re-
lease to the freedom of speech and deportment was de-
lightful. On gaining the street, he reeled like a drunk-
ard when he first breathes the open air, after leaving the


THE WIDOW LEROUGE" in
heated atmosphere of the wine shop, so intense was the
effect of the sudden revelations, just made by his friend
Noel.
Notwithstanding his haste to arrive at M. Daburon's,
he did not take a carriage. He felt the necessity of walk-
ing. He was one of those to whose brain exercise
brings clearness. As he went along, his ideas clashed
and shifted themselves, as grains of wheat when shaken
in a basket. Without hastening his pace, he gained the
Rue Chaussee d'Antin, crossed the boulevard with its
resplendent cafes, and turned into the Rue Richelieu.
He walked along, unconscious of external objects,
tripping and stumbling over the inequalities of the side-
walk, or slipping on the greasy pavement. If he fol-
lowed the proper road, it was a purely mechanical im-
pulse that guided him. His mind was following through
the darkness the mysterious thread of which he had
seized the almost imperceptible end at Jonchere.
Persons laboring under strong emotion frequently,
without knowing it, utter their thoughts aloud, little
thinking into what indiscreet ears their revelations or
disjointed phrases may fall. At every step, we meet in
Paris people babbling to themselves, and unconsciously
confiding to the four winds of heaven their dearest se-
crets, like cracked vases that allow their contents to
steal away. Often the passers by take these eccentric
monologuists for madmen. Often the idle or curious fol-
low, and amuse themselves by receiving these strange
confidences. It was an indiscretion of this kind which
told the ruin of Riscara the rich banker. Lambreth, the
assassin of the Rue Venise, betrayed himself in a simi-
lar manner.
"What a vein!" said Pere Tabaret. "What an in-
credible piece of good fortune! Gevrol has well said,


H2 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
that, after all, the cleverest agent of the police is chance.
Who would have imagined such a history? I was not,
however, very far from the reality. I smelt out an in-
fant at the bottom of the mystery! But who would have
dreamed of such a thing as the substitution?—an old
sensational effect, used up long ago in plays and novels.
This is a striking example of the danger of following
preconceived ideas in police investigation. We are af-
frighted at unlikelihood; and, as in this case, the great-
est unlikelihood proves often to be the truth. We re-
treat before the absurd; and the absurd turns out to be
the very thing we should examine. Every thing is possi-
ble.
"I would not take a thousand crowns for the experi-
ences of this evening. I shall kill two birds with one
stone. I deliver up the criminal; and I give Noel a hearty
clap on the shoulder to recover his title and his fortune.
For once I shall not be sorry to see a boy raised to
fortune from the school of adversity. But, pshaw! he
will be like all the rest. Prosperity will turn his head.
Already he begins to prate of his ancestors. Poor hu-
manity!" he burst into a fit of laughter. "It is my
friend Madame Gerdy who has astonished me most of
all,—a woman to whom I would have given absolution
before waiting to hear confess; and then to think that I
was on the point of asking her hand in marriage! What
a narrow escape! B-r-r-r!"
At this though^ the old fellow shivered. He saw
himself married, and all on a sudden discovering the
antecedents of Madame Tabaret, becoming mixed up
with a scandalous prosecution, compromised, and ren-
dered ridiculous.
"When I think," he went on laughing, as his
thoughts took another direction,—" when I think of


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
my worthy Gevrol running after the man with the ear-
rings in his ears! Ha, ha! Travel, my boy, travel!
Voyages inform youth. How vexed he will be when he
hears of this! He will wish me dead. I must jest with
him a little, just a little. I cannot help it. If he wishes
to do me any injury, M. Daburon must protect me.
Talking of Daburon. Am I not going to take a thorn
out of his foot. I can see him from this spot opening
his eyes like saucers, when I say to him, 'I have the
rascal!' This investigation will bring him honor, when
all the credit is due to me. He will, at the least, receive
the cross of honor. So much the better. He will come
to me again, this judge. If he is asleep, I am going to
give him an agreeable awaking. How he will over-
power me with questions! How he will want to know
the end, before I can relate the beginning!"
Pere Tabaret, who was now crossing the bridge of St.
Pere's, stopped suddenly. "Hold!" said he, "the de-
tails? I have not got them. I know the story only in
the gross."
He continued his walk, and resumed,—" They are
right at the office; I am too hasty. I am too fond of ro-
mancing, as Gevrol says. When I was with Noel I
ought to have cross-examined him, until I extracted
from him all those little points of evidence which now
I can only guess at; but I was carried away. I drank
in his words. I would willingly have had him tell the
story in one sentence. But, after all, it is but natural.
When one is in pursuit of a stag, he does not stop to
shoot a blackbird. Besides, by insisting on minute par-
ticulars, I might have awakened suspicions in Noel's
mind, and led him to discover that I am working up the
case for the Rue Jerusalem. To be sure, I do not blush
for my connection with the police; I am even vain of


114 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
j it; but I love to think that no one suspects it,—to see
how stupid people are in not knowing the police who
protect and guard them. And now for the interview;
for here we are at the end of our journey."
M. Daburon had gone to bed, but had given.orders to
his servant; so that Pere Tabaret had but to give his
name, to be conducted to the magistrate's sleeping-room.
At sight of his amateur agent, the judge addressed
him quickly,—
"There is something extraordinary! What have you
discovered ? have you got a clew?"
"Better than that," answered the old fellow, smiling
at ease.
"Speak quickly!"
"I have got the culprit!"
Pere Tabaret ought to have been satisfied; he cer-
tainly produced an effect. The judge bounded from his
bed.
"Already?" said he. "Is it possible?"
"I have the honor to repeat to M. the judge of in-
quiry that I know the author of the crime of Jonchere."
"And I," said the judge,—" I proclaim you the most
able of police agents past or future. I shall certainly
never hereafter undertake an investigation without your
assistance."
"You are too kind, monsieur. I have had little or
nothing to do in the matter. The discovery is due to
chance alone."
"You are modest, M. Tabaret. Chance assists only
wise men. She disdains to aid the stupid; but I beg
you will be seated and talk."
Then with a lucidity and precision of which few
would have believed him capable the old fellow repeated
to the judge all of Noel's story. He repeated from


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 115
memory the extracts from the letters, almost without
changing a word.
"These letters," added he, " I have seen; and I have
even carried off one, in order to verify the writing.
Here it is."
"Yes," murmured the magistrate,—" yes, M. Tab-
aret, you have discovered the criminal. The evidence
is palpable, even to the blind. Heaven has willed this.
Crime engenders crime. The misdeeds of the father
have made the son an assassin."
"I have not given you the names, monsieur," said
Pere Tabaret. "I wished first to hear your opinion
of the evidence."
"Oh! you can name them," interrupted the judge
with a certain degree of animation. "If ever so high
in position, they shall not escape the law. A French
magistrate never hesitates."
"I know it, monsieur; but we are going high this
time. The father who has sacrificed his legitimate to
his natural son is the Count Rheteau de Commarin;
and the assassin of the Widow Lerouge is the natural
son, Albert Vicomte de Commarin!"
Pere Tabaret, like an accomplished artist, had uttered
these words with a deliberate emphasis, expecting con-
fidently to produce a great impression. His attempt
overshot itself. M. Daburon was struck with stupor.
He remained motionless, his eyes dilated with astonish-
ment. Mechanically he repeated it, like a strange word,
the sense of which he was trying to understand.
"Albert de Commarin! Albert de Commarin I"
"Yes," insisted Pere Tabaret, "the noble viscount.
He is the last man in the world to be suspected, I know."
But he perceived the alteration of the judge's face;
and, a little frightened, he approached the bed.


n6 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Are you unwell?" he asked.
"No," answered Daburon, without knowing what
he said. "I am very well; but the surprise, the emo-
tion,"—
"I understand that," said the old fellow.
"I wish you would leave me for a few minutes; but
do not depart. We must converse at some length on
this business. Will you step into my study? There
ought to be a fire still burning there. I will rejoin you
in an instant."
Then Daburon rose lightly from the bed, put on a
dressing-gown, and seated himself, or rather fell, into
an arm-chair. His face, to which the exercise of his
austere functions had given the immobility of marble,
reflected the most cruel agitation; while his eyes be-
trayed the inward agony of his soul.
The name of Commarin, suddenly pronounced, awak-
ened in him the most sorrowful recollections, and tore
open a wound but badly healed. This name recalled to
him an event which had rudely extinguished his youth
and broken his life. Involuntarily, he carried his
thoughts back to this epoch, and compelled himself
to taste again all its bitterness.
An hour ago, it had seemed to him far removed, and
already hidden in the mists of the past. One word had
sufficed to recall it, clear and distinct. It seemed to him
now that this event with which he connected the name
of Albert de Commarin dated from yesterday, instead
of which two years had elapsed.
Pierre Marie Daburon belonged to one of the oldest
families of Poitou. Three or four of his ancestors had
filled successively the most considerable offices in the
province. Why, then, had they not bequeathed a title
and their arms to their descendants?


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 117
The magistrate's worthy father inhabited an ugly
modern castle; but it was surrounded by about eight
hundred thousand francs' worth of the best land in
France. His mother was a Cottevise-Luxe, from whom
he inherited the blood of the highest nobility of Poitou,
one of the most exclusive families in France, as every
one knows.
When he was appointed a judge of inquiry in Paris,
his parentage opened for him without delay five or six
aristocratic salons; and he was not slow to extend his
circle of acquaintance.
He possessed, however, few of the qualifications for
social success. He was cold and grave even to sadness,
reserved and timid to excess. His mind wanted bril--
liancy and lightness; he lacked the facility of repartee,
and the amiable art of conversing without a subject,
which is almost a necessity in mixed companies. He
could neither relate a bon mot nor pay a compliment.
Like most men who feel deeply, he was unable to trans-
late his impressions immediately. Reflection was neces-
sary to him; and he fell back upon himself.
To compensate for these defects he possessed other
qualities more solid,—nobility of sentiment, strength of
character, and integrity of purpose. Those who knew
him quickly learned to esteem his sound judgment, his
keen sense of honor, and tQ discover under his cold ex-
terior a warm heart, an excessive sensibility, and a deli-
cacy almost feminine. In a word, although he might be
eclipsed by the wits and triflers of a crowded salon,
he charmed all hearts in a smaller circle, where he felt
warmed by the purer atmosphere of sympathy.
He accustomed himself to go abroad a great deai.
He reasoned, wisely perhaps, that a magistrate can make
better use of his time than by remaining shut up in


n8 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
his study, in company with books of law. He thought
a man, to be a judge, ought to know something of
mankind; and, with that belief, he entered upon the
study of the subject. An attentive and discreet ob-
server, he examined around him the play of human
interests and passions, exercised himself in disentang-
ling and manoeuvring at need the strings of the pup-
pets he saw moving about him. Piece by piece, so to
say, he labored to comprehend the working of the com-
plicated machine called society, of which he was charged
to overlook the movements, regulate the springs, and
preserve the healthful action.
All on a sudden, towards the commencement of the
winter of i860 and 1861, Daburon disappeared. His
friends sought for him; he was nowhere to be found.
What had become of him? Inquiry resulted in the dis-
covery that he passed nearly all his evenings at Madame
d' Arlanges' house. The surprise was as great as it
was natural.
This dear marquise was, or rather is,—for she is
still in the land of the living,—a person rather out of
date and rococo in the dowagers of the Princess de
Southenay's circle. She is surely the most singular
link between the eighteenth century and our own. How,
and by what marvelous process she has been preserved
such as we see her, from so remote an age to the pres-
ent, is a more puzzling question than we can explain.
Listening to her, you would swear that she was yester-
day at one of the queen's soirees, whose passion for
cards was the annoyance of Louis XIV., at whose par-
ties the great ladies cheated openly in emulation of each
other.
Manners, language, habits, even costume, she pre-
served them all; and, as time had touched them, not to


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 119
beautify but to disfigure, the effect was not the most
pleasing. A glimpse of her head-dress is more than a
long article of review of the court of Louis XIV.; an
hour's conversation, more than a volume of the " Con-
fessions of Madame de Maintenon."
She was born in a little German principality, where
her parents had taken refuge from their wild and rebel-
lious people. She had been nursed, when a child, on the
knees of old Emigres, in a salon very old and very much
gilded, resembling a cabinet of curiosities. Her mind
was awakened amid the hum of antediluvian conversa-
tions, her imagination aroused by arguments a little
less profitable than those of an assembly of dunces, con-
voked to decide the merits of a Greek hexameter. Here
she imbibed a fund of ideas, which, applied to the
forms of society to-day, are grotesque, as would be
those of an individual shut up for twenty years in an
Assyrian museum.
The empire, the restoration, the monarchy of July,
the second republic, the second empire, have passed
beneath her windows; but she has not taken the pains
to open them. All that has taken place since '89 she
ignores, or at most looks upon as a dream, a nightmare,
and expects an awakening. She has seen every thing;
but she has seen it through spectacles of her own mak-
ing, which present objects not as they are, but as she
wishes them to be.
At the age of sixty-eight, she was straight as an ar-
row, and had never known a day's sickness. She ate
her four meals a day with the appetite of a grape-gath-
erer, and drank when she was thirsty. She was so vi-
vacious and active that she never rested save when
sleeping, or when seated at her favorite game of piquet.
She professed an undisguised contempt for the silly wo-


120 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
men of our century, who dine on the wing of a par-
tridge, and talk you to death with philosophical disquisi-
tions. Positive and over-bearing in all things, her word
was prompt and easily understood. Her language was
never rendered obscure by unnecessary delicacy. She
never shrank from using the most appropriate words to
express her meaning. If she offended some refined
ears, so much the worse,:—for their owners. What she
most detested was hypocrisy.
She believed in God; but she believed also a little in
Voltaire. In fact, her devotion was, to say the least,
problematical. However, she was on good terms with
the curate of her parish, and was very particular about
the arrangement of her dinner on the days she honored
him with an invitation to her table. She considered
him a subaltern, very useful to her salvation, and de-
serving of the honor of opening for her the gate of para-
dise.
She was shunned like the plague. Everybody dreaded
her high voice, her terrible indiscretion, and the frank-
ness of speech she seemed to affect, in order to claim
the right of saying the most unpleasant things before
your face. Of all her family, there remained only her
granddaughter, whose father had died very young.
Of a fortune originally large, she had been able to
preserve but a small remnant, on which she supported
her small household in genteel, or rather aristocratic
poverty. She was, however, proprietor of the pretty
little house in which she lived near the Invalides, situ-
ated between a rather narrow court and a very extensive
and beautiful garden.
So circumstanced, she considered herself the most
unfortunate of God's creatures, and passed the greater
part of her time crying miserere! From time to time,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 121
she declared she expected to be reduced to absolute beg-
gary, and to die in a hospital.
A friend of M. Daburon's presented him one evening
to the Marquise d'Arlanges, having dragged him to her
house in a mirthful mood, saying, "Come with me,
and I will show you a phenomenon,—a ghost of the
past in flesh and bone."
The marquise received the magistrate graciously
enough; and her eccentricities amused him. On his
second visit, she amused him still more; for which rea-
son, he came a third time. But she amused him no
longer; henceforth, every faculty of his soul was ab-
sorbed in studying the charms of the young and tender
rose who was blooming into loveliness, in this to him
henceforth enchanted dwelling.
Madame d'Arlanges conceived a violent friendship
for him, and became eloquent in his praise.
"A most charming young man," she declared, "deli-,
cate and sensible! What a pity he was not born—
(Her ladyship meant born of noble parentage, but used
the phrase as ignoring the fact of the unfortunates who
are not noble having been born at all;) "although it is
plainly to be seen he ought to be. His family, by the
father's side, were people of considerable importance;
and his mother was a Cottevise, who made a mesalliance.
I approve of the young man, and shall advance him in
the world by my countenance."
The strongest proof of the favorable impression he
had made upon the marquise was, that she condescended
to pronounce his name like the rest of the world. She
preserved this affectation of forgetfulness of the names
of people who were not " born," and who in consequence
have no right to names. She was so confirmed in this
habit, that, if by accident she pronounced the name of


122 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
one of those people correctly, she repeated it imme-
diately in some ridiculous manner.
At his first visit, the judge was amused tc hear his
name changed every time she addressed him in the most
unaccountable way. Successively she made it Taburon,
Dabiron, Maliron, Laridon; but in less than three
months, she called him Daburon as distinctly as if he
had been a duke of something, and seigneur of some-
where.
On occasions, she amused herself, endeavoring to
prove to the worthy magistrate that he must be noble,
or at least ought to be. She would have been happy, if
she had succeeded in making him wrap himself up in
a title, and put a coat of arms upon his visiting cards.
"How is it possible," said she, " that your ancestors,
eminent, wealthy, and influential, never thought of pur-
chasing a title for their descendants? What a pity they
have not left you some presentable coat of arms!"
"My ancestors were proud," responded M. Daburon.
"They preferred being foremost among their fellow-
citizens to becoming newly-created nobles."
Upon which the marquise explained, and proved to a
demonstration, that between the most influential and
wealthy untitled citizen and the smallest scion of no-
bility, there was an abyss that all the money in the world
could not fill up.
They who were surprised at the frequency of the
magistrate's visits to this celebrated "relic of the past"
had no idea that the real attraction was not the mar-
quise but her granddaughter, Claire, whose presence
converted the old-fashioned house into a bower of en-
chantment.
Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlanges had already seen sev-
enteen summers. She was very gracious and sweet in


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
123
manner, and ravishing in her natural innocence and
fearlesness of harm. She had blonde, ash-colored hair,
very fine and thick, which she wore over a large roll
above her forehead, and which fell in large masses upon
her neck, in the most artless fashion imaginable. Her
figure, though graceful, was rather slender; but her face
recalled the celestial pictures of Guido. Her blue eyes,
shaded by long lashes of a hue darker than her hair,
had above all an adorable expression.
A certain air of antiquity, caught from association
with her grandmother, added yet another charm to the
young girl's manners. She had more sense, however,
than her relative; and, as her education was not ne-
glected, she had imbibed ideas of the world in which
she lived sufficiently exact to preserve her from imita-
ting her grandmother's absurdities. This education,
these practical ideas, Claire owed to her governess, upon
whose shoulders the marquise had thrown the sole re-
sponsibility of cultivating her mind.
This governess, Mademoiselle Schmidt, chosen at
hazard, taken " with eyes shut," happened by the most
fortunate chance to be both well informed and possessed
of principle. She was, what is often met with on the
other side of the Rhine, a woman at once romantic and
practical, of the tenderest sensibility and the severest
virtue. This good woman, while she carried her pupil
into the land of sentimental phantasy and poetical im-
aginings, gave her at the same time the most practical
instruction in matters relating to actual life; and. while
she deprived Claire of all the peculiarities of thought
and manner that rendered her grandmother so ridicu-
lous, she preserved in her mind all the respect that was
due to her position and the relations between them.
This was the young girl who attracted M. Daburon to


124 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Madame d'Arlanges' salon where he sat evening after
evening, listening, without hearing, to her rigmaroles,
her interminable anecdotes of the emigration; while he
gazed upon Claire, as a fanatic upon his idol. Often,
in his ecstasy, he forgot where he was for the moment,
absolutely became oblivious of the old lady's presence;
although her shrill voice was piercing the tympanum of
his ear, as a needle goes through cloth. Suddenly re-
called to consciousness, he answered her at cross-pur-
poses, committing the most singular blunders, which
he labored afterwards to explain. But this did not much
impede the conversation. Madame d'Arlanges did not
perceive her courtier's absence of mind; and her ques-
tions were of such a length, and succeeded each other
so rapidly, that the answers were of little consequence.
Having a listener, she was satisfied, provided that from
time to time he gave signs of life.
When obliged to sit down to piquet, he cursed below
his breath the game and its detestable inventor. He
paid no attention to his cards. He made mistakes every
moment, dealt without seeing, and forgot to cut. The
old dame was annoyed by these continual distractions;
but she did not scruple to profit by them. She watched
the deal, rectified all mistakes; while she counted au-
daciously points she never made, and pocketed his
money without remorse.
As Daburon's timidity was extreme, and Claire was
unsociable to excess, they never spoke to each other.
During the entire winter, the judge did not address ten
times a direct word to the young girl; and, on these
rare occasions, he had learned by heart mechanically the
phrase he proposed to repeat to her, well knowing that,
without this precaution, he would be obliged to remain
silent.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 125
But at least he saw her, he breathed the same ai'r with
her, he heard her voice, whose pure and harmonious vi-
brations thrilled his very soul.
By constantly watching her eyes, he learned to un-
derstand all their expressions. He believed he could
read in them all her thoughts, and through them look
into her soul as into an open window.
"She is pleased to-day," said he to himself; and
then he was happy. At other times, he thought, " She
has met with some annoyance to-day; " and immediately
he became sad.
The idea of askinglor her hand many times presented
itself to his imagination; but he never dared to entertain
it. Knowing, as he did, the marquise's prejudices, her
devotion to titles, her dread of mesalliance, he was con-
vinced she would reject his suit; and he did not dare to
risk the dissolution of his present happiness upon so
slender a hope of success. Poor man! he had reached
the altitude of love where it feeds upon its own misery.
"Once repulsed," he thought, "the house is shut
against me; and then farewell to happiness: this life is
finished for me."
'Upon the other hand, the very rational thought oc-
curred to him that some other might see Mademoiselle
d'Arlanges; seeing, love her, and in consequence, de-
mand and perhaps obtain her.
In either case, hazarding a proposal, or hesitating
still, he must certainly lose her in the end. By the com-
mencement of spring, his mind was made up.
One fine afternoon, in the month of April, he bent his
steps towards the Hotel d'Arlanges, having truly need
of more bravery than if he were a soldier about to iace
a battery. He, like the soldier, whispered to himself
"Victory or death!" The marquise, who had gone out


126 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
shortly after breakfast, had just returned in a terrible
rage, and was uttering screams like an eagle.
This was what had taken place. She had had some
work done by a neighboring painter some eight or ten
months before; and the workman presented himself a
hundred times to receive payment, without avail. Tired
of this proceeding, he had summoned the high and
mighty Marquise d'Arlanges before the courts.
This summons had exasperated the marquise; but she
kept the matter to herself, having decided, in her wis-
dom, to call upon the judge of the court himself, and
request him to reprimand the insolent painter who had
dared to plague her for a paltry sum of money. The re-
sult of this fine project may be guessed. The judge
had been compelled to eject her forcibly from his office;
hence her fury.
M. Daburon found her in the rose-colored boudoir
in half dishabille, and complete disorder of head-dress,
red as a peony, surrounded by the debris of glass and
china which had fallen under her hands in the first mo-
ments of her passion. To complete her annoyance,
Claire and her governess were gone out. An excited
and terrified femme dc chambre was inundating the old
lady with water, in the hope of calming her nerves.
She received Daburon as a messenger direct from
Providence. In a little more than half an hour, she told
her story, interlarded with interjections and impreca-
tions.
"Do you comprehend this judge? " cried she. "This
must be some frantic Jacobin,—some son of the furies,
who washed their hands in the blood of their king. Oh!
my friend, I read stupor and indignation on your visage.
He has listened to the complaint of this buffoon, to
whom I had given the means of living, by employing


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 127
him. And when I waited upon him in his office, and ad-
dressed to him, as I owed it to myself to do, some severe
remonstrances, he actually turned me out of the room!
me! turned me out!"
At this painful recollection, she made a fierce gesture
with her arms. In her sudden movement, she struck a
superb flacon, which the femme de chambre was hold-
ing. The blow dashed it to pieces against the wall of
the boudoir.
"Stupid, awkward fool!" she cried, turning her an-
ger upon the frightened girl.
Daburon, stunned at first, now endeavored to calm
her exasperation. She did not allow him to pronounce
three words.
"Happily you are here," she continued!" I have told
you all. I count upon you! you will exercise your in-
fluence, your powerful friends, your credit, to have this
pitiful painter and this miscreant of a judge flung into
some deep ditch, to teach them the respect due to a wo-
man of my rank."
The magistrate did not permit himself even to smile
at this imperative demand. He had heard many speeches
as absurd issue from her lips without daring to perceive
their absurdity. Was she not Claire's grandmother?
for that he loved and venerated her. He blessed her for
her granddaughter, as an admirer of nature blesses
heaven for the wild flower that delights him with its
perfume.
The fury of the old lady was terrible; nor was it of
short duration. It was able, like the anger of Achilles,
to last through ten chapters. At the end of an hour,
however, she was, or appeared to be pacified. They re-
placed her head-dress, repaired the disorder of her toi-
lette, and picked up the fragments of broken china. Van-


128 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
quished by her own violence, the reaction was imme-
diate and complete. She fell back helpless and ex-
hausted in the arm-chair.
This magnificent result was due to the magistrate.
To accomplish it, he had to use all his ability, to exer-
cise the most angelic patience, the greatest tact. His
triumph was the more meritorious, because he came
unprepared for this adventure, which interfered with
his intended proposal. He had arrived filled with some-
thing like a resolve to speak of his wishes; and this un-
toward event declared against him: but he had a good
heart to oppose to misfortune.
Arming himself with his professional eloquence, he
talked the old lady into calmness. He was not so fool-
ish as to contradict her. On the contrary, he caressed
her hobby. He was humorous and pathetic by turns.
He attacked the authors of the revolution, cursed its
errors, deplored its crimes, and reviewed its disastrous
results. From the infamous Marat, by an adroit allu-
sion he attacked the infamous judge who had offended
her. He abused the scandalous conduct of the magis-
trate in good set terms, and was awfully severe upon
the dishonest scamp of a painter. He declared that they
deserved the lowest dungeon in the Bastile; but the con-
clusion to which he arrived was, that the severest blow
she could administer to the man's impertinence and the
judge's incapacity would be to pay the bill, and compel
them to give her a receipt in full for all demands.
The disconnected syllable "pay" brought Madame
d'Arlanges to her feet in the fercest attitude.
"Pay!" she screamed. "In order that these scoun-
drels may persist in their obduracy? encourage them by
a culpable weakness? Never! And, moreover, to pay,
it is necessary to have money; and I have none!"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Why," said the judge, " it amounts to but eighty-
seven francs!"
"And is that nothing?" asked the marquise: "you
talk very easily, M. Daburon. It is easy to see that you
have money: your ancestors were people of no rank:
and the revolution passed a hundred feet above their
heads. Who can tell whether they may not have been
the gainers by it? It has taken all from the d'Arlanges.
What will they do to me, if I do not pay?"
"Well, madame le marquise, many things,—ruin you,
in short: you will receive a notification from the courts.
If that is not attended to, your furniture will be seized."
"Alas!" cried the old lady, "the revolution is not
over yet. We have not passed through all its horrors!
How fortunate you are, M. Daburon, in being of the
people! I see plainly that I must pay this man; and it
is frightfully sad for me, who have nothing, and am |
forced to make such sacrifices for sake of" my grand-
child!"
The word "sacrifices" surprised the magistrate so
strongly that involuntarily he repeated it half-aloud,
"Sacrifices?"
"Certainly!" replied Madame d'Arlanges. "With-
out her, would I have to live as I am doing, refusing
myself every thing to make both ends meet? Was it
not for her sake I placed all that I possessed in the
funds, and lost it? But I do not consider myself. I
know, thank heaven, the duties of a mother; and I
guard all mine well for my little Claire."
To this extraordinary devotion, M. Daburon had no
reply to make.
"Ah! this dear child torments me terribly," con-
tinued the marquise. "I confess, M. Daburon, it makes
me giddy when I think of her establishment."


130 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The judge reddened with pleasure. The occasion
had come at a gallop. She was turning to leave the
room, when he detained her.
"It seems to me," stammered he, "that to establish
Mademoiselle Claire ought to be easy."
"Unfortunately, it is any thing but easy. She is
pretty enough, although unpolished; but, now-a-days,
beauty goes for nothing. Men are so mercenary they
think only of money. I do not know of one who has
the manhood to take a d'Arlanges with her bright eyes
for a dowry."
"I believe that you exaggerate," said the judge tim-
idly.
"By no means. Besides, when I find a son-in-law,
he will cause me a thousand troubles. Of this, I am as-
sured by my lawyer. I can be compelled, it seems, to
render an account of Claire's patrimony. As if I ever
kept accounts! It is shameful. Ah! if Claire had any
sense of filial duty, she would quietly take the veil in
some convent. I would use every effort to pay the ne-
cessary dower; but she has no affection for me."
Daburon felt that the time to speak had arrived. He
collected his courage, as a good horseman pulls his horse
together the moment he faces the leap, and in a voice
which he tried to render firm, commenced,—
"Madame, I know, I believe, just the person for
Mademoiselle Claire,—an honest man, who loves her,
and who will do every thing in the world to make her
happy."
"That," said Madame d'Arlanges, "is always un-
derstood."
"The man of whom I speak," continued the judge,
"is still young, and is rich. He will be only too happy
to receive Mademoiselle Claire without dowry. Not


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 131
only will he decline an examination of your accounts of
guardianship, but he will supply you with means to free
your own property of all incumbrance."
"Peste!" exclaimed the old dame; "you are not a
bad friend, M. Daburon!"
"If you prefer to place your fortune in an annuity,
your son-in-law will make good whatever deficiency re-
mains."
"Ah! I am suffocating. If you have known such a
man, why have you not already presented him?"
"I did not dare, madame: I was afraid."
"Quick! tell me who is this admirable son-in-law,—
this white blackbird? where does he nestle?"
The judge felt a strange fluttering of the heart: he
was going to stake his happiness on a word. At length,
he stammered,—
"It is I, madame!"
His voice, his look, his suppliant gesture, were ridicu-
lous in the eyes of the old lady; and she laughed till the
tears came. He, frightened at his own audacity, stunned
at having vanquished his timidity, was on the point of
falling at her feet. At last, raising her shoulders, she
cried,—
"My dear Daburon, you are too ridiculous! In good
truth, you will make me die of laughing."
But suddenly, in the very height of her merriment
she stopped, and assumed her most dignified air.
"Are you perfectly serious in all you have told me,
M. Daburon?"
"I have stated the truth," murmured the judge.
"You are very rich, then?"
"I have, madame, in right of my mother, about
twenty thousand livres a year. One of my uncles died
about a year ago, leaving me a hundred thousand


132 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
crowns. My father is worth not less than a million.
Were I to ask him for the half to-morrow, he would
give it to me. He would give me all his fortune, if it
were necessary to my happiness, and be but too well
contented, should I relieve him of its administration."
Madame d'Arlanges made a sign to him to be silent;
and, for five good minutes at least,she remained plunged
in reflection, her forehead resting in her hands. At
length she raised her head.
"Hear me," said she. "Had you been so hardy as
to make this proposal to Claire's father, he would have
called his servants to show you the door; but I am old
and desolate. I am poor. My grandchild's prospects
disquiet me; and that is my excuse for not acting in
like manner. I cannot, however, consent to speak to
Claire of this horrible mesalliance. This much I can
promise you; and it is much, I will not be against you.
Take your own measures. Pay your addresses to Ma-
demoiselle d'Arlanges. Let her decide. If she says
'yes,' I shall not say 'no.'"
Daburon transported with happiness, would have
embraced the old lady, if he dared. He never dreamed
of the facility with which this fierce soul had been
brought to yield. He was delirious.
"Wait!" said the old lady; "your cause is not yet
gained. Your mother, it is true, was a Cottevise; and
I must excuse her for marrying so wretchedly: but your
father is Sieur Daburon. This name, my dear friend,
is simply ridiculous. Do you think it will be possible to
wrap up in Daburon a young girl who for eighteen years
has been called d'Arlanges?"
This objection did not seem to trouble the judge.
"After all," continued the old lady, " your father has
gained a Cottevise: you may win a d'Arlanges; and, on


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
the strength of an alliance with the daughter of a house
whose nobility has descended from sire to son for so
many generations, the Daburons may end by being en-
nobled. Who knows? One last advice: you believe
Claire to be just as she looks,—timid, sweet, obedient.
Undeceive yourself, my friend. With her saintly air
and delicate touch, she is hardy, fierce, and obstinate as
the marquis her father was, who resembled a mule of
Auvergne. You see, I forewarn you. Our conditions
are agreed to, are they not? Let us say no more on the
subject. I wish you every success."
This scene was so present to his mind as he sat there
at midnight in his own house in his arm-chair, after
so long a lapse of time that he still seemed to hear the
old lady's voice; and this word "success" sounded in
his ear.
He departed in triumph from the Hotel d'Arlanges,
which he had entered with a heart swelling with anx-
iety.
He walked with his head high, his chest dilated,
breathing the air with full respirations.
He was so happy! The sky appeared to him more
blue, the sun more brilliant.
The grave magistrate felt a mad desire to stop the
passers by, to press them in his arms, to cry to them,—
"Do you not know, the marquise consents?"
He walked; and the earth seemed to him to bound be-
neath his steps. He felt too small to contain his hap-
piness, too light to remain on earth. He was going to
fly away toward the stars.
What a castle in Spain did he build upon this little
word of the marquise! He tendered his resignation.
He built on the banks of the Loire, not far from Tours,
an enchanting little villa. He saw it smiling, with its


134 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
facade to the rising sun, seated in the midst of flowers,
and shaded with great trees. He furnished this dwell-
ing as if for the reception of the queen of the fairies.
He wished to provide a casket worthy the pearl he was
going to possess, for he had not a dread of shipwreck,
to obscure the horizon made radiant by his hopes, not a
voice at the bottom of his heart raised itself to cry, " Be-
ware!"
From this time, his visits to the marquise became
more frequent. He might be said to live at her house.
While he preserved his respectful and reserved de-
meanor towards Claire, he strove assiduously to be
something in her life. He strove to conquer his timid-
ity, to speak to this well beloved of his soul,—to con-
verse with her, to interest her.
He went in quest of novelty, to amuse her. He read
all the new books, and brought to her all that were fit
for her to read.
Little by little he succeeded, thanks to the most deli-
cate persistence, in taming his wood pigeon. He began
to perceive that her fear of him had almost disappeared,
that she no longer received him with the cold and
haughty air which so long had kept him at a distance
He felt that insensibly he was advancing in her con-
fidence. She still blushed when she spoke to him; but
she no longer hesitated to address the first word. She
even ventured at times to ask him a question. She had
heard a play spoken of. and wished to know the sub-
ject. M. Daburon quickly ran to see it, and committed
a complete account of it to writing, which he addressed
to her by mail. At times she entrusted him with trifling
commissions, the execution of which he would not have
exchanged for a Russian embassy.
Once he ventured to send her a magnificent bouquet.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
She accepted it with an air of suppressed disquietude,
and begged him not to repeat the offering.
The tears came to his eyes; and he left her presence
wounded,—the unhappiest of men.
But, three days after, she raised him from this de-
spair, by begging him to look for certain flowers, then
very much in fashion, she wanted for her little garden.
He sent enough to fill the house from the garret to the
cellar.
"She loves me," he whispered to himself.
These little events, so great, had not interrupted the
parties at piquet; only the young girl now appeared in-
terested in the game, nearly always taking part with the
judge against the marquise. She did not understand
the game very well; but, when the old gambler cheated
too openly, she would perceive it, and say laughing,—
"She is robbing you, M. Daburon,—she is robbing
you!"
He would willingly be robbed of his entire fortune,
to hear that sweet voice raised for him.
It was summer.
Often in the evening she accepted his arm; and, while
the marquise remained in the porch, seated in her arm-
chair, they walked around the garden, treading lightly
upon the paths spread with gravel, sifted so fine that
the trailing of her light robe effaced the traces of their
footsteps. She chatted gaily with him, as with a be-
loved brother; while he was obliged to do violence to his
feelings, to refrain from imprinting a kiss upon the little
blonde head, from which the light breeze lifted the curls
and scattered them like fleecy clouds. At such mo-
ments, he seemed to tread a triumphant path, strewn
with flowers, and saw at the end happiness.
He attempted to speak of his hopes to the marquise


136 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"You know what we have agreed upon," she would
say. "Not a word. Already does the voice of con-
science reproach me with my fault in lending my coun-
tenance to.this abomination. To think that I may one
day have a granddaughter who calls herself Daburon!
I must petition the king, my friend, to change this
name."
If, instead of intoxicating himself with dreams of
happiness, this acute observer had studied the character
of his idol, the effect might have been to put him upon
his guard.
In the mean while, he remarked singular alterations
in her humor. On certain days she was gay and care-
less as a child. Then, for a week, she would remain
sombre and dejected. Seeing her in this state the
day following a ball, to which her grandmother had
taken her, he dared to ask her the reason of her
sadness.
"Oh! that," answered she, heaving a deep sigh, " is
my secret,—a secret of which even my grandmother
knows nothing."
Daburon looked at her. He thought he saw a tear
between her long eyelashes.
"One day," continued she, "I may confide in you:
it will be necessary, perhaps."
The judge was blind and deaf.
"I also," answered he, " have a secret, which I wish
to confide to you in return."
When retiring after midnight, he said to himself,
"To-morrow I will confess every thing to her."
There passed a little more than fifty days, during
which he kept repeating to himself,—
"To-morrow!"
One evening in the month of August,—the heat all


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 137
day had been overpowering,—a breeze had risen. The
leaves rustled: there were signs of a storm in the at-
mosphere.
They were seated together at the bottom of the gar-
den, under the arbor, adorned with flowers which Claire
had planted; and, through the branches, they perceived
the fluttering head-dress of the marquise, who was tak-
ing her accustomed walk after supper.
They had remained a long time without speaking, en-
joying the perfume of the flowers, the calm beauty of
the evening. Daburon had ventured to take the young
girl's hand.
It was the first time; and the touch of her slender fin-
gers thrilled through every fibre of his frame, and drove
the blood surging to his brain.
"Mademoiselle," stammered he, " Claire.''
She stopped him, by turning upon him her beautiful
eyes, filled with astonishment.
"Pardon me," continued he,—" pardon me. I have
addressed your grandmother, before venturing to speak
to you. Do you not understand me, Claire? A word
from your lips decides my future happiness or misery.
Claire, mademoiselle, I love you!"
While the magistrate was speaking, the young girl
looked at him as though doubtful of the evidence of her
senses; but at the words, "I love you!" pronounced
with the trembling accents of passion, she disengaged
her hand rudely, and uttered a stifled cry.
"You," murmured she,—"is this really true?"
M. Daburon at this, the most critical moment of his
life, was powerless to utter a word. The presentiment
of an immense misfortune oppressed his heart. What
divined he, when he saw Claire burst into a flood of
tears.


138 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
She hid her face between her hands, and repeated,—
"I am very unhappy, very unhappy!"
"You unhappy?" cried the magistrate. "And
through me, Claire? You are cruel! In heaven's name,
what have I done? What is the matter? Speak! Any
thing rather than this anxiety, which is killing me!"
He knelt before her on the gravelled walk, and made
an attempt to again take her hand. She repulsed him
with an imploring gesture.
"Let me weep," said she; "you are going to hate
me. I feel it. Who knows, to despise me, perhaps?
And yet I swear before heaven that I was ignorant of
what you have just said to me, that I had not even a
suspicion of it!"
Daburon remained upon his knees, awaiting his doom.
"Yes," continued Claire, "you will think you have
been the victim of a detestable coquetry. I see it now I
I comprehend every thing! Is it possible, that, without
a profound love, a man cannot be all that you have been
to me? Alas! I was deceived. I gave myself up to the
great happiness of having a friend! Am I not alone
in the world, as if lost in a desert? Mad and imprudent,
I devoted myself to you without reflection, as to the
most indulgent of fathers."
These words revealed to the unfortunate judge a
complete understanding of his error. As a hammer of
steel it smashed into a thousand fragments the fragile
edifice of his hopes. He raised himself slowly; and, in a
tone of involuntary reproach, he repeated,—
"Your father!"
The young girl felt how deeply she had wounded him;
but she knew not the intense depth of his love.
"Yes," she repeated, "a father! Seeing you so
grave and austere, become for me so good, so indulgent.



Claire—Mademoiselle—I love you"





THE WIDOW LEROUGE
I thanked heaven for sending me a protector to replace
the father I have lost."
Daburon could not restrain a sob; his heart was
breaking.
"One word," continued Claire,—" one single word,
would have enlightened me. That word, until to-night,
you have never pronounced. And with what comfort I
have leaned upon you, as an infant upon its mother;
with what inward'joy I have said to myself,' I am sure
of one friend,—one heart into which runs the overflow
of mine.' Ah! why was not my confidence greater?
Why have I withheld my secret from you? I would
have avoided this fearful calamity. I ought to have
long since told what I must tell you now. I belong not
to myself, but to another, to whom I have freely and
with happiness given my life."
To hover in the clouds, and suddenly be cast rudely
to the earth. The sufferings of the judge are not to
be described.
"Better had I had the courage to speak long since,"
answered he; "yet, no: I owe to silence six months of
delicious illusions,—six months of enchanting dreams.
This shall be my share of life's happiness."
The last beams of closing day permitted the magis-
trate again to see Mademoiselle d'Arlanges. Her beau-
tiful face was blanched to a deathlike whiteness, and
was immovable in its expression as marble. Large tears
rolled silently down her cheeks. Daburon seemed to
contemplate the frightful spectacle of a weeping statue.
"You love another," said he at length,—"another?
and your grandmother is ignorant? Claire, you can-
not have chosen a man unworthy of your love? How
is it your grandmother does not receive him?"
"There are certain obstacles," murmured Claire,—


140 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"obstacles which perhaps we may never be able to re-
move ; but a girl like me can love but once. She marries
him she loves, or she remains with heaven!"
"Certain obstacles," said Daburon in a hollow voice.
"You love a man: he knows it; and he meets with ob-
stacles?"
"I am poor," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlanges;
"and his family is immensely rich. His father is cruel,
inexorable."
"His father," cried the magistrate, with a bitterness
he did not dream of hiding,—" his father, his family;
and that withholds him? You are poor: he is rich;
and that stops him, and he knows you love him? Ah!
why am I not in his place; and why have not I against
me the entire universe? What sacrifice could compare
with love like mine? Nay, would it be a sacrifice?
What to others might appear so, to me would be simply
joy. Suffer, struggle, wait, so long as hope remains;
that is to love."
"It is thus I love," said Claire with simplicity.
This answer crushed the judge. He understood that
for him there was no hope; but he felt a terrible enjoy-
ment in plumbing the depth of his misfortune.
"But," insisted he, "how have you known him,
spoken to him? Where? When? Madame d'Arlanges
receives no one."
"I will tell you every thing," answered she in a de-
cided tone. "It is a long time since I have known
him. It was at the house of one of my grandmother's
friends, who was a cousin of his,—old Mademoiselle
Goello,—that I saw him for the first time. There we
first met; there we meet each other now."
"Ah!" cried Daburon to himself, "I remember
now. A few days before your visit to Mademoiselle


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Goello, you are gayer than usual; and, when you return,
you are often sad."
"That is because I see how much he is pained by the
obstacles he cannot overcome."
"His family is, then, so illustrious," said he, "that
it disdains alliance with yours?"
"You shall know every thing, without question, mon-
sieur," answered Mademoiselle d'Arlanges. "His name
is Albert de Commarin."
The marquise, at this moment, thinking she had
walked enough, prepared to regain her rose-colored
boudoir. She approached the arbor.
"Incorruptible magistrate!" said she, in her great
voice, "the table is set for piquet."
Mechanically the magistrate arose, stammering, "1
am coming."
Claire held his arm. .
"I have not asked you to be secret, monsieur," said
she.
"O mademoiselle!" said the judge, wounded by this
appearance of doubt.
"I know," said Claire, " that I can count upon you;
but, come what will, my tranquillity is lost."
Daburon regarded her with an air of surprise; his
eye questioned her.
"It is certain," said she, answering the look, "that
what I, a young and inexperienced girl, have failed to
see, has not been unnoticed by my grandmother. That
she has continued to receive you is a tacit encourage-
ment of your addresses; which I consider, permit me
to say, as very honorable to me."
"I have already mentioned, Mademoiselle, that the
marquise has deigned to authorize my hopes."
And briefly he related his interview with Madame


142 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
d'Arlanges, having the delicacy to omit absolutely the
question of money, which had so strongly influenced the
old lady.
"I see very plainly what effect this will have on my
peace," said she sadly, " when she learns that I have not
received your homage."
"You do not know me, mademoiselle," said he. "I
have nothing to say to the marquise. I will retire; and
all will be concluded."
"Oh! you are good and generous, I know!"
"I will go away," pursued Daburon; " and soon you
will have forgotten even the name of the unfortunate
whose life is broken."
"You do not mean what you say?" asked the young
girl quickly.
"Well, no. I will flatter myself with a hope, that,
later, my remembrance will not be without pleasure to
you. Sometimes you will say ' He loved me,' and think
of me as a friend,—your most devoted friend."
Claire, in her turn, took with emotion his hands with-
in her own.
"Yes," said she; "you must remain my friend. Let
us forget what has happened,—what you have said to-
night,—and remain to me. as in the past, the best, the
most indulgent of brothers."
The darkness had come, and she could not see him;
but she knew he was weeping, for he was slow to an-
swer.
"Is it possible," murmured he at length, "that you
can ask that? Do you, who talk to me of for-
getting, feel the power to forget? Do you not
know that I love you a thousand times more than
you love^—"
He stopped, unable to pronounce the name of Com-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 143
marin; and then, with an effort, he added, "and I shall
love you always."
He had left the arbor, and was now on the steps of
the porch.
"And now, mademoiselle, adieu! You will see me
again rarely. I shall only return often enough to avoid
the appearance of a rupture."
His voice trembled, so that with difficulty he made
it distinct.
"Whatever may come in the future," added he, " re-
member that there is one in the world who belongs to
you absolutely. If ever you have need of a friend's de-
votion, come to me, come to your friend. Let me go.
It is over. I have courage, Claire. Mademoiselle, for
the last time, adieu!"
She was little less dismayed than he was. Instinc-
tively she advanced her head; and M. Daburon touched
lightly with his cold lips, for the first and last time, the
forehead of her he loved so well.
They mounted the steps, she leaning on his arm, and
entered the rose-colored boudoir where the marquise
was seated, impatiently shuffling the cards, while await-
ing her victim.
"Now, then, incorruptible judge," cried she.
But Daburon felt sick at heart. He could not have
held the cards. He stammered some absurd excuses*
spoke of pressing affairs, of duties to be attended to,
of unexpected news, and went out, clinging to the walls.
His departure made the old cardplayer indignant.
She turned to her granddaughter, who was endeavor-
ing to hide her confusion behind the wax candles of
the card-table, and demanded,—
"What has happened to M. Daburon this evening?"
"I do not know, madame," stammered Claire.


144 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"It appears to me,'' continued the marquise, "that
the little judge permits himself to take singular liber-
ties. He must be reminded of his proper place, or he
will finish by believing himself our equal."
Claire essayed to justify the magistrate.
"He has been complaining all the evening, grand-
mamma; may he not be sick?"
"What if he should be?".exclaimed the old lady.
"Is it not his duty to exercise some self-denial, in re-
turn for the honor of our company? I think I have
already related to you the story of your granduncle,
the Duke de St. Hurluge, who, having attended the
king's hunting party, on their return from the chase
lost with the best grace in the world two hundred and
twenty pistoles. All the assembly remarked his gaiety
and his good humor. The following day it was learned,
that, during the chase, he had fallen from his horse
and had sat at his majesty's card-table with a broken
rib, rather than mar the enjoyment of the company by
a complaint. Nobody made any outcry, so perfectly
natural did an act of ordinary politeness appear in those
days. This little judge, if he is sick, should have given
proof of his breeding by saying nothing about it, and
remaining for my piquet. But he is as well as I am.
Who can tell what games he has gone to play else-
where?"
CHAPTER VII.
Daburon did not return home on leaving the Hotel
d'Arlanges. All the night he wandered at random, he
knew not whither, seeking a little coolness for his burn-
ing head, a little calm for his overloaded and bursting
heart


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 145
"Fool that I was," said he to himself. "Thousand
times fool to have hoped, to have believed, that she
would ever love me. Insensible! how could I have
dreamed of possessing so much grace, nobleness, and
beauty! How charming she was this evening, when her
face was wet with tears. Could any thing be more an-
gelic? What a sublime expression her eyes had in
speaking of him! How she must love him! And I?
She loves me as a father. She told me so,—as a father.
And could it be otherwise? Is it not justice? Ought
she to see a lover in this magistrate, sombre and severe,
always as sad as his black costume? Was it not a
crime to dream of uniting that virginal simplicity to my
detestable worldly science? For her, the future is yet
the land of smiling chimeras; and long since experience
has dissipated all my illusions. She is as young as In-
nocence: I am as old as Vice."
The unfortunate magistrate made himself veritably a
horror. He understood Claire, and he excused her. He
even wished he could himself suffer the sadness he had
brought upon her. He reproached himself with having
cast a shadow upon her life. He could not forgive him-
self for having spoken of his love. Ought he not to have
foreseen what had happened,—that she would refuse
him, that he would thus deprive himself of the hap-
piness of seeing her, of hearing her, of silently adoring
her?
"A young and romantic girl," pursued the judge,
"must have a lover she can dream of,—whom she can
caress in imagination, as an ideal, pleasing herself by
seeing in him every great and brilliant quality, imagin-
ing him full of nobleness, of bravery, of heroism. What
would she see, if, in my absence, she dreamed of me?
Her imagination would present me dressed in a funeral


146 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
robe, in the depth of a gloomy dungeon, engaged with
some foul criminal. Is it not my trade to descend into
all the moral sinks, to stir up the foulness of crime?
Am I not compelled to wash in secrecy and shadow the
foul linen of society? Ah! it is a fatal profession. Am
I punished thus, because, like the priest, the judge
should condemn himself to solitude and celibacy? Both
know all: they hear all, their costumes are nearly the
same; but, while the priest in the fold of his black robe
carries consolation, the judge carries terror. One is
mercy, the other chastisement. Such are the images
awakened; while the other,—the other—"
The wretched man continued his headlong course
along the deserted quays.
He went with his head bare, his eyes haggard. To
breathe more freely he had torn off his cravat and
thrown it to the winds.
Sometimes, unconsciously, he crossed the path of a
solitary wayfarer, who would pause, touched with pity,
and turn to watch the retreating figure of the unfor-
tunate wretch he thought deprived of reason.
In a by-road, near Grenelle, some officers stopped, and
tried to question him. He mechanically tendered them
his card. They read it, and permitted him to pass, con-
vinced that he was drunk.
Anger,—a furious anger, began to replace his first
feeling of resignation. In his heart arose a hate,
stronger and more violent than even his love for Claire.
This other, this preferred, this noble viscount, who
could not overcome these paltry obstacles, oh, that he
had him there, under his knee!
At this moment, this noble and proud man, this mag-
istrate, so severe and grave, felt an irresistible longing
for vengeance. He began to understand the hate that


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 147
armed itself with the poniard, and lay in ambush in dark
corners; which struck in the darkness, whether in the
face or in the back, it mattered little, but which struck,
which killed,—whose vengeance blood alone could sat-
isfy.
At this very hour, he was charged with the conduct
of an inquiry into the case of an unfortunate young girl,
accused of having stabbed one of her wretched com-
panions.
She was jealous of this woman, who had tried to take
her lover from her. He was a soldier, very fat and very
ugly.
Daburon felt himself seized with pity for this miser-
able creature, whom he had commenced to examine the
day previous.
She was very ugly,—truly repulsive; but the expres-
sion of her eyes, when speaking of her soldier, returned
to the memory of the judge.
"She loved him veritably," thought he. "If each one
of her jurors could suffer what I am suffering now, she
would be acquitted. But how many men have had in
their lives a passion? Perhaps not one in twenty."
He resolved to recommend this girl to the indulgence
of the tribunal, and extenuate as much as he could the
punishment of her crime.
He had himself resolved upon the commission of a
crime.
He was resolved to kill Albert de Commarin.
During the rest of the night, he did but confirm him-
self in this resolution, demonstrating by a thousand
mad reasons, which he found solid and inscrutable, the
necessity for another legitimacy of this vengeance.
At seven o'clock in the morning, he found himself in
an alley of the Bois de Boulogne, not far from the lake.


148 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
He gained the Maillot gate, called a carriage, and was
driven to his house.
The delirium of the night continued, but without suf-
fering. He was conscious of no fatigue,—calm and
cool apparently, but under the empire of an hallucina-
tion,—in a state approaching somnambulism.
He reflected and reasoned, but without reason.
He dressed himself with care, as was his custom
formerly when visiting the Marquise d'Arlanges, and
went out.
He first called at an armorers, and bought a small
revolver, which he caused to be carefully loaded under
his own eyes, and put into his pocket. He threw him-
self in the way of persons he supposed capable of in-
forming him to what club the viscount belonged. No
one perceived the strange situation of his mind, so nat-
ural were his manners and conversation.
It was not until the afternoon he found a young
friend, a member of Albert de Commarin's club, who
offered to conduct him thither and present him.
Daburon accepted warmly, and accompanied his
friend.
While passing along he grasped with frenzy the
handle of the revolver, which he kept concealed, think-
ing only of the murder he determined to commit, and
the means of insuring the accuracy of his aim.
"This will make," thought he, "a terrible scandal;
above all, if I do not succeed: Well, if I fail, I shall go
mad. They will arrest me,—throw me into prison. I
shall be placed upon trial at the court of assize, my name
dishonored! Bast! what does that import to me? I
am not loved by Claire. What to me is all the rest
My father without doubt will die of grief; but / must
be revenged."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 149
Arrived at the club, his friend pointed out to him a
very distinguished looking young man, of a brown com-
plexion, with a haughty air, or what appeared so to him,
who, seated at a table, was reading a review. It was the
viscount.
Daburon marched upon him without drawing his re-
volver. Arrived within two paces, his heart failed
him: he turned suddenly and fled, leaving his friend
astonished at a scene, to him utterly inexplicable.
Albert de Commarin will be as near death but once
again.
When he reached the street, Daburon felt the ground
flying beneath his feet,—every thing turning around
him. He tried, but was unable to cry out: he struck at
the air with his hands, reeled an instant, and then fell
helpless on the pavement.
The passers by ran and assisted the police to raise
him. In one of his pockets they found his address, and
carried him to his house. When he recovered his senses,
he lay upon his bed, at the foot of which he perceived
his father.
"What has taken place?" he asked. With much
caution they told him, that for six weeks he had wavered
between life and death. The doctors had declared his
life saved; and, now that reason was restored, all would
go well.
Five minutes' conversation exhausted him. He shut
his eyes, and tried to collect his ideas; but they whirled
hither and thither wildly, as autumn leaves in the wind.
The past seemed shrouded in a dark mist; yet, in the
midst of all the darkness and confusion, the memory of
his scene with Mademoiselle dArlanges stood out be-
fore his mental vision clear and luminous. All his ac-
tions up to the moment when he embraced Claire were


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
marked, as in a picture strongly drawn. He trembled;
and his hair was in a moment damp with perspira-
tion.
He had failed to become an assassin.
The proof that he was restored to full possession of
his faculties was, that a question of criminal law crossed
his brain.
"The crime committed," said he to himself, "should
I have been condemned? Yes. Was I responsible?
No. Would an action committed in a state of mental
alienation be a crime? Was I mad? Or was I in a pe-
culiar state of mind which always precedes an illegal
attempt? Who can answer? Why have not all judges
passed through an incomprehensible crisis such as mine?
Who would believe me, were I to recount my expe-
rience?"
Some days later, he was sufficiently recovered to
tell his father all. The old gentleman shrugged his
shoulders, and assured him it was but a reminiscence of
his delirium.
The good old man was moved at the story of his son's
luckless wooing, without seeing therein an irreparable
misfortune. He advised him to think of something else,
placed at his disposal his entire fortune, and recom-
mended him to marry a stout Poitevine heiress, very
pretty and good humored, who would make him an ex-
cellent wife. Then, as his farm was suffering by his
absence, he returned to his province. Two months
later, the judge of inquiry had resumed his ordinary
avocations. But it was hard work. He went through
his duties like a body without a soul. He felt that his
heart was broken.
Once he ventured to pay a visit to his old friend, the
marquise. On seeing him, she uttered a cry of terror.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
She took him for a spectre, so much was he changed in
appearance.
As she dreaded dismal figures, she shut herself from
him in the future.
Claire was sick for a week after seeing him. "How
he loved me!" thought she. "He has almost died for
me! Does Albert love me as much?"
She did not dare to answer herself. She felt a desire
to console him, to speak to him, attempt something; but
he came no more.
Daburon was not, however, a man to be overthrown
without a struggle. He tried, as his father advised him,
to distract his thoughts. He sought for pleasure, and
found disgust, but not forgetfulness. Often he went
so far as the threshold of dissipation; always the pure
figure of Claire, dressed in white garments, barred the
doors against him.
Then he took refuge in work, as in a sanctuary; con-
demned himself to the most incessant labor, forbade
himself to think of Claire, as the consumptive forbids
himself to recollect his malady.
His asperity in his labor, his feverish activity, was
worth the reputation of an ambitious man; but he took
no real interest in any thing.
At length, though he found not rest, this engrossing
occupation exempted him from the sorrow which com-
monly follows a great catastrophe. The convalescence of
oblivion commenced.
These were the events, recalled to Daburon by Pere
Tabaret, in pronouncing the name of Commarin. He
believed them buried under the ashes of time; and be-
hold they came up, as those characters traced in sym-
pathetic ink appear when held before a fire, on paper
apparently blank. In an instant they unrolled them-


152 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
selves before his memory, with the instantaneousness oi
a dream, annihilating time and space.
During some minutes, he assisted at the representa-
tion of his own life. At once actor and spectator, he
was there seated in his arm-chair; and he appeared to
himself as in a theatre. He acted, and he judged him-
self.
His first thought, it must be confessed, was one of
hate, followed by a detestable sentiment of satisfaction.
Chance had delivered to him this man preferred by
, Claire,—this man no longer a haughty gentleman, illus-
trious by his fortune and his ancestors, but an illegiti-
mate offspring of a femme convert. To guard a stolen
name, he had committed a most cowardly assassination.
And he the judge, was to experience the infinite grati-
fication of striking his enemy with the sword of justice.
But this was only a passing thought. The conscience
of the man revolted against it, and made its powerful
voice heard above the whispers of selfishness.
"Is any thing," it cried, "more monstrous than the
association of these two ideas,—hatred and justice? A
j judge. Can he, without despising himself more than
the vile beings he condemns, remind himself that a
criminal whose fate is in his hands has been his enemy?
A judge of inquiry. Has he a right to sit in judgment
on a man against whom he harbors in his heart one drop
of gall?"
Daburon repeated to himself many times during the
year, on commencing an inquiry,—
"And I also,—I almost stained myself with dread-
ful murder!"
And now observe what he was about to do,—to arrest,
interrogate, and hand over to the court of assize the
man he had once the firm determination to kill.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 153
All the world, it is true, ignores the crime of thought'
and intention; but could he himself forget it? Was not „
this, of all others, a case to except against, to give his
resignation? Ought he not to withdraw, and wash his •
hands of bloodshed, leaving to another the care of
avenging society?
"No," said he, "it would be a cowardice unworthy
of me."
A project of mad generosity came to him. "If I save
him," murmured he, " if for sake of Claire I leave him
his honor and his life,—but how can I save him?—I
shall be obliged to suppress Pere Tabaret's testimony,
and impose upon him the complicity of silence. It will
be necessary to make him voluntarily take a false road,
and run with Gevrol after a chimerical murderer. Is
this practicable? On the other hand, to spare Albert is
to defame Noel; it is to assure impunity to the most
odious of crimes. In fine, it is to sacrifice human jus-
tice to human feeling."
The magistrate suffered.
How to choose a path in the midst of so many per-
plexities! Dragged each way by different interests, he
wavered, undecided, between determinations the most
opposite, his mind oscillating from one extreme to the
other.
What to do? His reason after this new and unfore-
seen shock vainly sought to regain its equilibrium.
"Retreat? " said he to himself. "Where, then, is my
courage? Ought I not rather to remain the representa-
tive of the law, incapable of emotion, insensible to preju-
dice? Am I so feeble that, in assuming my role, I am
unable to divest myself of my personality? Can I not,
for the present, make abstraction of the past? My duty
is to pursue this inquiry. Claire herself would order


154 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
me to act thus. Would she desire to wed a man soiled
by suspicion of a crime? Never. For Claire's sake, then,
I will go on; that, if innocent, he may be restored to her,
and, if guilty, she may be delivered from all further
contact with a man so unworthy of her pure affec-
tion."
This was very strong reasoning; but, at the bottom of
his heart, a thousand disquietudes darted their thorns.
He wanted, something more to reassure him.
"Do I still hate this young man?" he continued.
"No, certainly. If Claire has preferred him to me, it is
to Claire and not him I owe my suffering. My fury was
no more than a passing fit of delirium. I will prove it.
by letting him find in me as much of counsellor as judge.
If he is not guilty, he will dispose of all this formidable
array of evidence, placed by Pere Tabaret in the hands
of justice, by establishing counter-proofs of his inno-
cence. Yes, I am able to be his judge. Heaven, who
reads the thoughts of all hearts, sees that I love Claire
enough to wish with all my heart the innocence of her
lover."
At this moment, M. Daburon, remembered vaguely
the lapse of time.
It was nearly three o'clock in the morning.
"Goodness!" cried he, " and Pere Tabaret is waiting
for me. I shall find him asleep."
But Pere Tabaret was not asleep. He had felt the
passage of time no more than the judge.
Ten minutes had sufficed him to take an inventory
of the contents of Daburon's study; which was large,
and of a severe magnificence, altogether in accordance
with the position and large fortune of the magistrate.
Armed with a lamp, he approached six very handsome
pictures, which broke the monotony of the wainscoting.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
155
and admired them. He examined curiously some rare
bronzes, placed upon the chimney-piece, and a console.
He gave the bookcase the glance of a connoisseur.
After which, taking an evening paper from the table,
he approached the hearth, and plunged into a vast arm-
chair.
He had not read the third part of the leading article,
—which, like all the leading articles of the time, inter-
ested itself exclusively with the Roman question,—
when, letting the paper drop from his hands he became
absorbed in meditation. The fixed idea, stronger than
his will, and more interesting to him than politics, car-
ried him to Jonchere, where lay the murdered Widow
Lerouge. Like the child who builds up and throws
down again and again his house of cards, he re-ar-
ranged and scattered alternately his series of induc-
tions and evidence.
Certainly there was nothing doubtful or questionable
in the evidence. From A to Z, he knew all. He knew
what his own impressions had been, on hearing Noel's
revelations; and Daburon, he saw, shared his opinions.
What difficulty remained?
There is between the judge of inquiry and the ac-"
cused a supreme tribunal,—an admirable institution, a
powerful moderator,—the jury.
The jury, thank heaven! does not content itself with
a moral conviction. The strongest probabilities cannot
draw from them an affirmative verdict.
Placed upon a neutral ground, between the prosecu-
tion and the defence, it demands material and tangible
proofs. Where the magistrate would condemn twenty
times for one, in all security of conscience, the jury ac-
quit for lack of satisfying evidence.
The deplorable execution of Lesurques has certainly


156 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
assured impunity to many criminals; but, it is necessary
to say it justifies hesitation in receiving circumstantial
evidence in capital crimes.
In short, save where a criminal is taken in the very
act, or confesses his guilt, it is not certain that the min-
ister of justice can secure a conviction. Sometimes the
judge of inquiry is as anxious as the accused himself.
Nearly all crimes are in some particular point mysteri-
ous, perhaps impenetrable to justice and the police; and
the duty of the advocate is, to discover this weak point,
and thereon establish his client's defence. By pointing
out this doubt to the jury, he insinuates in their minds
a distrust of the entire evidence; and frequently the
detection of a distorted induction, cleverly exposed, can
change the face of a prosecution, and make a strong
case appear to the jury a weak one. This uncertainty
explains the character of passion which is so often per-
ceptible in criminal trials.
And, in proportion to the march of civilization, juries
in important trials will become more timid and hesitat-
ing. The weight of responsibility oppresses the man of
conscientious scruple. Already numbers recoil from the
idea of capital punishment; and, whenever a jury can
find a peg to hang a doubt on, they will wash their
hands of the responsibility of condemnation. We have
seen numbers of persons signing appeals for mercy to
a condemned malefactor, condemned for what crime?
Parricide! Every juror, from the moment he is sworn,
weighs infinitely less the evidence he has come to listen
to than the risk he runs of incurring the pangs of re-
morse. Rather than risk the condemnation of one in-
nocent man, he will allow twenty scoundrels to go un-
punished.
The accusation must, then, come before the jury,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 157
armed at all points, with both hands full of proofs. A
task often tedious to the judge of inquiry, and bristling
with difficulties, is the arrangement and condensation
of this evidence, particularly when the accused is a
miscreant of strength and coolness, certain of having
left no traces of his guilt. Then, from the depths of his
dungeon he defies the assault of justice, and laughs at
the judge of inquiry. It is a terrible struggle, enough
to make one tremble at the responsibility of the magis-
trate, when he remembers, that, after all, this man im-
prisoned, without consolation or advice, may be inno-
cent. How hard is it, then, for the judge to resist his
moral convictions!
Even when presumptive evidence points clearly to the
criminal, and common sense recognizes him, Justice is
at times compelled to acknowledge her defeat, for lack
of what the jury consider sufficient proof of guilt.
Thus, unhappily, many crimes escape punishment. An
old advocate-general one day confessed that he knew
as many as three assassins, living rich, happy, and re-
spected, who, unless from some improbable accidents,
would end by dying in their beds, surrounded by their
families, being followed to the grave with lamentations,
and praised for their virtues in their epitaphs.
At the idea that a murderer should escape the penalty
of his crime, steal himself away from the very court of
assize, Pere Tabaret's blood fairly boiled in his veins,
as at the recollection of a cruel personal injury.
Such a monstrous event, in his opinion, could only
proceed from the incapacity of the magistrates charged
with the prosecution, the maladdress of the police, or
the stupidity of the judge of inquiry.
"It is not I," he muttered, with the satisfied vanity of
success, " who ever let my prey escape. No crime can


158 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
be committed, of which the author cannot be found un-
less he happens to be a madman; in which event, his es-
cape is reasonable. I would pass my life in pursuit of a
criminal, before avowing myself vanquished, as this
Gevrol has done so many times."
This time again, Pere Tabaret, assisted by chance,
had succeeded, he repeated to himself; but what proofs
of innocence would the defence present to this accursed
jury,—this jury, so difficult to convince, so formal and
so cowardly. Who could imagine what means might,
not be found by a strong man, perfectly on his guard,
covered by his position, and without doubt by cunning
precautions? What trap had he prepared? To what
new and infallible stratagem had he had recourse?
The amateur detective exhausted himself in subtle but
impracticable combinations, always stopped by this fatal
jury, so obnoxious to the chevaliers of the Rue Jerusa-
lem.
He was so deeply absorbed in his thoughts that he
did not hear the door open, and continued his reflec-
tions unconscious of the judge's presence.
Daburon's voice aroused him from his reverie.
"You will excuse me, M. Tabaret, for having left
you so long alone."
The old fellow rose and made a respectful salutation
at an angle of forty-five degrees.
"By my faith, monsieur," replied he, "I have not
had the leisure to perceive my solitude."
Daburon crossed the room, and seated himself, facing
his agent before a small table encumbered with papers
and documents relating to the crime. He appeared very
much fatigued.
"I have reflected a good deal," he commenced, "on
all this affair—"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 159
"And I," interrupted Pere Tabaret, "was just ask-
ing myself, monsieur, what was likely to be the attitude
assumed by the viscount at the moment of his arrest.
Nothing is more important, according to my theory,
than his manner of conducting himself then. Will he
attempt to intimidate the agents? Will he threaten them
with expulsion from the house? These are generally the
tactics of titled criminals. My opinion, however, is,
that he will remain perfectly cool. This conclusion is
logical. It is the character of the perpetrator of the'
crime to treat the ministers of justice with a superb as-
surance. He will declare himself the victim of a misun-
derstanding, and insist upon an immediate interview
with the judge of inquiry. Once that is accorded to him,
he will finish by explaining every thing very quickly."
The old fellow spoke of matters of speculation in
such a tone of assurance that Daburon was unable to re-
press a smile.
"We have not got as far as that yet," said he.
"But we shall, in some hours," replied Tabaret
quickly. "I presume you will order the criminal's ar-
rest at daybreak."
The judge trembled, as the patient who sees the sur-
geon on entering deposit his case of instruments upon
the table.
The moment for action had come. He felt now what
a distance lies between a mental decision and the physi-
cal action resulting therefrom.
"You are prompt, M. Tabaret," said he; "you rec-
ognize no obstacles."
"None, having ascertained the criminal. Who else
can have committed this assassination? Who but he
had an interest in silencing the Widow Lerouge, in
suppressing her testimony, in destroying her papers?


i6o THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Poor Noel! who is as dull as honesty, has been fore-
stalled by this wretch, who stops at nothing. Noel has
instituted proceedings to recover his title and estates.
Should the guilt of the assassin fail to be established,
he will remain de Cammarin more than ever; and my
young advocate will be Noel Gerdy to the grave."
"Yes, but—"
The amateur fixed upon the judge a look of astonish-
ment.
"You see, then, some difficulties, monsieur? " he de-
manded.
"Without doubt!" replied Daburon. "This is a mat-
ter demanding the utmost circumspection. In cases like
the present, we must not strike until the blow is sure;
and we have but presumptions. We must not deceive
ourselves. Justice, unhappily, cannot repair her errors.
Her hand once placed upon a man, even if unjustly,
leaves an imprint of dishonor that can never be effaced.
She may perceive her error, and proclaim it aloud; but
in vain. Public opinion,—absurd, idiotic opinion.—par-
dons not the man guilty of the crime of being sus-
pected."
It was with a sinking heart the old fellow heard these
remarks. He would not be the man to be withheld by
such mean considerations.
"Our suspicions are well grounded," continued the
judge. "But, should they lead us into error, our pre-
cipitation would be a terrible misfortune for this young
I man, to say nothing of the effect it would have in
abridging the authority and dignity of Justice, of weak-
ening the respect which constitutes her power. Such a
mistake would call for discussion, provoke examination,
and awaken distrust, at an epoch in our history when


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 161
all minds are but too much disposed to defy the consti-j
tuted authorities."
He leaned upon the table, and appeared to reflect pro-
foundly.
"No chance," thought Pere Tabaret. "I have to do
with a trembler. When he should act, he makes
speeches; instead of signing mandates, he propounds
theories. He is stunned by my discovery, and is not
equal to the situation. Instead of being delighted by
my appearance with the news of our success, he would
have given a louis, II dare say, to have been left to
slumber undisturbed in thick ignorance. Ah! he would
very willingly have the little fishes in his net; but the
big ones frighten him: the big fish are dangerous; and
he lets them swim away."
"Perhaps," said Daburon in a loud tone, "it will
suffice to issue a mandate of inquiry, and another of
requisition for the appearance of the accused."
"Then all is lost!" cried Pere Tabaret.
"And why, if you please?"
"Monsieur, we are opposed by a criminal of marked
ability. The crime has been executed with the most
subtle premeditation. A most providential accident
alone, almost a miracle, has placed us upon the track
of discovery. If we give him time to breathe, he will
escape."
The only answer was an inclination of the head;
which Daburon might have intended for a sign of as-
sent.
"It is evident," continued the old fellow, "that our
adversary has foreseen every thing, absolutely every
thing, except the possibility of suspicion attaching to
one in his high position. Oh! his precautions are all


162 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
taken. If you are satisfied with demanding his appear-
ance, he is saved. He will enter your cabinet of inquiry
as tranquilly as your clerk, as unconcerned as if he came
to arrange the preliminaries of a duel. He will present
you with a magnificent alibi, an alibi that cannot be
gainsaid. He will show you that he passed the even-
ing and the night of Tuesday with personages of the
highest rank. He has dined with the Count de Machin,
gamed with the Marquis of so and so, and supped with
the Duke of what's his name. The Baroness of this and
the Viscountess of that have not lost sight of him for a
minute. In short, his little machine will be so cleverly
constructed, so nicely arranged, all its little wheels will
play so well, that there will be nothing left for you but
to open the door and usher him out with the most hum-
ble apologies. The only means of securing conviction
is to surprise the miscreant by a rapidity against which
it is impossible he can be on guard. Fall upon him like
a thunderclap, arrest him as he awakes, drag him hither
while yet pale with astonishment, and interrogate at
once."
Pere Tabaret stopped short, frightened at the idea
that he had been wanting in respect; but Daburon
showed no sign of being offended.
"Proceed," said he, in a tone of encouragement,
"proceed."
"Then," continued the old fellow, "I am a judge
of inquiry. I cause my man to be arrested; and, twenty
minutes later, he is standing before me. I do not amuse
myself by putting questions to him, more or less subtle.
No, I go right to the mark. I overwhelm him at once
by the weight of my certainty, prove to him so clearly
that I know every thing, that he must surrender, seeing
no chance of escape. I should say to him, ' My good


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 163
man, you bring me an alibi; it is very well: but we are
acquainted with this system of defence. It will not do
with me. Of course I understand you have been else-
where at the hour of the crime; an hundred persons
have never lost sight of you: It is all admitted. In the
mean time, here is what you have done. At twenty min-
utes after eight, you slipped away adroitly; at thirty-five
minutes past eight, you took the train at Rue St. La-
zare; at nine o'clock, you descended at the station at
Rueil, and took the road to Jonchere; at a quarter past
nine, you knocked at the window-shutter of the Widow
Lerouge's cottage. You were admitted. You asked
for something to eat, and, above all, something to drink.
At twenty minutes past nine, you planted the end of a
foil, well-sharpened, between her shoulders. You killed
her! You then overturned every thing in the house, and
burned certain papers of importance; after which, you
tied in a napkin all the valuables you could find, and car-
ried them off, to lead the police to believe the murder
was the work of a robber. You locked the door, and
threw away the key.
"' Arrived at the Seine you threw the bundle into the
water, and then regained the railway station on foot;
and, at eleven o'clock, you re-appeared in the company,
where your absence was unnoticed. Your game was well
played; but you omitted to provide against two adversa-
ries, an agent of police, not easily deceived, named
Tirauclair, and another still more capable, named
chance.
"' Between the two, they have made you lose the
game. Moreover, you were wrong to wear fine boots, and
to keep on your pearl gray gloves, besides embarrassing
yourself with a silk hat and an umbrella. Now confess
your guilt, and save the trouble of a trial; and I will


164 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
give you permission to smoke in your dungeon some of
those trabucos you are so fond of, and which you smoke
always with an amber mouthpiece.'"
During this speech, delivered with extraordinary vol-
ubility, Pere Tabaret had gained a couple of inches in
height, so great was his enthusiasm. He looked at the
magistrate, as if requesting a smile of approval.
"Yes," continued he, after taking breath, " I would
say this, and nothing else; and, unless this man is a
hundred times stronger than I suppose him to be, unless
he is made of bronze, of marble, or of steel, he would
fall at my feet and avow his guilt."
"And then if he were of bronze." said Daburon, " and
did not fall at your feet, what would you do next?"
The question evidently embarrassed the old fellow.
"Pshaw!" stammered he; " I don't know; I should
see. I would search. But he would confess."
After a prolonged silence, Daburon took a pen, and
wrote in haste —
"I surrender," said he. "M. Albert de Commarin
shall be arrested. It is decided; but the formalities and
inquiries will occupy some time, which I wish to use by
first interrogating the Count de Commarin, the young
man's father, and this young advocate, your friend M.
Noel Gerdy, also, in examination of the letters of which
you speak; they are indispensable to me."
At the name of Gerdy, Pere Tabaret's face assumed
a most comical expression of uneasiness.
"Confound it," cried he, "the very thing I have
most dreaded."
"What?" demanded Daburon.
"The necessity for the examination of those letters.
Noel will discover my interference. He will despise me:
he will fly from me, when he knows that Tabaret and


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 165
Tirauclair sleep in the same nightcap. Before eight
days, my oldest friends will refuse to take my hand, as
if it were not an honor to serve justice. I shall be
obliged to change my residence, and assume a false
name."
He almost wept, so great was his annoyance. Dabu.
rcn was touched.
"Reassure yourself, my dear Tabaret," said he. "I
will manage that your adopted son, your Benjamin,
shall know nothing. I shall lead him to believe I have
reached him by means of the widow's papers."
The old fellow seized the judge's hand in a transport
of gratitude, and carried it to his lips.
"Oh! thanks, monsieur, a thousand thanks! I beg
to be permitted to witness the arrest; and I shall be glad
to assist at the examination."
"I expected you would ask it, M. Tabaret," answered
the judge.
The lamps paled in the gray dawn of the morning;
the rumbling of vehicles was heard in the distance:
Paris was awaking.
"I have no time to lose," continued Daburon, "if I
would have all my measures well taken. I must at once
see the procurer imperial, awake him, if necessary. I
will go from his house directly to the palace of justice.
I shall be in my cabinet before eight o'clock; and I de-
sire, M. Tabaret, you will there await my orders."
The magistrate's servant appeared.
"A note, monsieur," said he, "brought by a gen-
darme from Bougival. He waits an answer."
"Very well," replied Daburon. "Ask the man to
have some refreshment; at least offer him a glass of
wine."
He opened the envelope.


166 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Ah!" he cried, "a letter from Gevrol;" and he
read,—
"' To the Judge of Inquiry,—
"' I have the honor to inform you. that I am on the
track of the man of the ear-rings. I heard of him at a
wine shop, which he entered on Sunday morning, be-
fore going to the Widow Lerouge's cottage. He drank,
and paid for two litres of wine; then, suddenly striking
his forehead, he cried, "Old stupid! to forget that to-
morrow is the boat's fete day!" and demanded another
litre of wine. I consulted the almanac; it was the fete
of St. Martin, which I therefore take to be the name of
the boat. I have also learned that she was laden with
grain. I write to the prefecture at the same time as I
write to you, that inquiries may be made at Paris and
Rouen. He must be found at one of these places.
"' I am in waiting, monsieur, etc'"
"Poor Gevrol!" cried Pere Tabaret, bursting with
laughter. "He sharpens his sabre, and the battle is over.
Are you not going to put a stop to his researches, mon-
sieur?"
"No; certainly not," answered Daburon; "to neglect
the slightest clew might lead to error. Who can tell
what light we may receive from this old mariner with
the rings in his ears?"
CHAPTER VIII.
On the same day that the crime of Jonchere was dis-
covered, and precisely at the hour when Pere Tabaret
made his memorable examination in the victim's cham-
ber, the Viscount Albert de Commarin entered a car-
riage, and proceeded to the Gate du Nord, to meet his
father.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 167
The young man was very pale, his features pinched,
his eyes dull, his lips blanched, his whole appearance de-
noting either overwhelming fatigue or unusual sor-
row.
All the servants had observed, that, during the past
five days, their young master was not in his ordinary
condition: he spoke with effort, ate almost nothing, and
forbade the admission of visitors.
His valet remarked that this singular alteration dated
from the visit, on Sunday morning, of a certain M.
Noel Gerdy, advocate, who had been closeted with him
for three hours in the library.
The viscount, gay as a lark until the arrival of this
person, had, from the moment of his departure, the ap-
pearance of a man at the point of death, or filled with
remorse for the commission of a terrible crime.
At the moment of setting forth to meet his father, the
viscount appeared to suffer so acutely that Lubin, his
valet, entreated him not to expose himself to the cold; it
would be more prudent to retire to his room, and call in
the doctor.
But the Count de Commarin, his son knew, was ex-
acting on the score of filial duty, and would overlook the
worst of youthful indiscretions sooner than what he
termed a want of reverence. He had announced his in-
tended arrival by telegraph, twenty-four hours in ad-
vance; therefore the house was expected to be in per-
fect readiness to receive him: and the absence of Albert
at the railway station would have been resented as a fla-
grant omission of duty.
The viscount had been but five minutes in the waiting
room, when the bell announced the arrival of the train.
Soon the doors leading to the platform were opened,
and the depot became filled with travellers.


168 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The throng beginning to thin a little, the count ap-
peared, followed by a servant, who carried a travelling
pelisse lined with expensive fur.
The Count de Commarin looked a good ten years less
than his age. His beard and hair, yet abundant, were
scarcely grey. He was tall and muscular, held himself
upright, and carried his head high,—all this without any
of the ungracious British manner, so much affected by
our young men of the present day. His appearance was
noble, his movements easy. His hands were strong and
handsome,—the hands of a man whose ancestors have
been for centuries familiar with swordhilts. His regu-
lar features presented a study to the physiognomist, all
expressing easy, careless good nature, even to the hand-
some, smiling mouth; except his eyes, in whose clear
depths flashed the fiercest, most arrogant pride. This
contrast revealed the secret of his character. Imbued
quite as deeply with aristocratic prejudice as the Mar-
quise d'Arlanges, he had progressed with his century,
or at least appeared to have done so. As fully as the
marquise, he held in contempt all who were not noble;
but his disdain expressed itself in different fashion. The
marquise proclaimed her contempt loudly and coarsely;
the count dissimulated, beneath an excess of politeness
humiliating to its object, a feeling of disgust equally
excessive. The marquise willingly admitted her trades-
people to familiar conversation. The count, one day
when his architect let fall his umbrella, picked it up and
returned it to him. The marquise had lived with her
eyes bandaged, her ears closed; the count had kept eyes
and ears open and had seen and heard a good deal. She
was stupid, and without the protection of common
sense. He was witty and sensible, and possessed en-
larged views of life and politics. She dreamed of the


170 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
had nothing to-day but some detestable bouillon, at I
know not what way station."
M. de Commarin arrived in Paris in very ill-humor:
his journey into Austria had not brought the results he
hoped for.
To crown his dissatisfaction, he had rested, on his
homeward way, at the house of an old friend, with
whom he had so violent a discussion that they parted
without shaking hands.
The count was hardly seated in his carriage, which
started at a gallop, before he entered upon the subject
of this disagreement.
"I have quarrelled with the Duke de Sairmeuse,"
said he.
"That seems to me to happen whenever you meet,"
answered Albert, without intending any raillery.
"True," said the count; "but this is serious. I
passed four days at his country-seat, in a state of in-
conceivable exasperation. He has been guilty of an act
which lowers him in my estimation beyond recovery!
Sairmeuse has sold his estate of Gondresy,—one of the
finest in the north of France. He cut down the timber,
and put up to auction the old chateau,—a princely
dwelling, now to be converted into a sugar refinery; all
this for the purpose, as he says, of raising money to meet
some legal obligations,—debts or settlements, or some-
thing of that kind!"
"And was that the cause of your rupture?" inquired
Albert, without much surprise.
"Certainly it was?" Do you not think it a sufficient
one?"
"But. monsieur, you know the duke has a large fam-
ily, and is far from rich."
"What matters that? A noble of France who sells


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 171
his land commits an unworthy act. He is guilty of trea- II
son against his order!"
"O monsieur! " said Albert, deprecatingly.
"I said treason!" continued the count. "I maintain
the position. Remember well, viscount, the power has'
been, and always will be, on the side of wealth,—the 1|
strongest right with those who hold the soil. The men \^
of '93 well understood this principle, and acted upon it.
By impoverishing the nobility, they destroyed their pres-
tige more effectually than by abolishing their titles. Ai
prince dismounted, and without retinue,—that is, with-;
out means to retain them,—is a ridiculous figure! The 1
minister of July, who said to the people, ' Make your- 11
selves rich,' was not a fool. He gave them the magic
formula for power. But they have not the sense to un-
derstand it. They want to go too fast. They launch
into speculations, and become rich, it is true; but in
what? Stocks, bonds, paper,—rags, in short. It is
smoke they are locking in their coffers. They prefer to
invest in merchandise, which pays eight or ten per cent,
to investing in vines or corn which will return but three.
The peasant is not so foolish. From the moment he
owns a piece of ground the size of a handkerchief, he
wants to make it as large as a tablecloth. He is slow as
the oxen he ploughs with, but as patient, as tenacious,
and as obstinate. He goes directly to his object, press-
ing firmly against the yoke; and nothing can stop or
turn him aside. He knows that stocks may rise or fall,
fortunes be won or lost on 'change; but the land always
remains,—the real standard of wealth. To become land-
holders, the peasant starves himself, wears sabots in
winter; and the imbeciles who laugh at him will be as-
tonished by and by when he makes his '93, and the peas-
ant becomes a baron in power if not in name."


172 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"I do not understand the application," said the vis-
count.
"You do not understand? Why, what the peasant is
doing is what the nobles ought to have done! Ruined,
their duty was to reconstruct their fortunes. Commerce
is interdicted to us; be it so: agriculture remains. In-
stead of grumbling uselessly during the half-century,
instead of running themselves into debt, in the ridicu-
lous attempt to support an appearance of grandeur, they
ought to have retreated to their provinces, shut them-
selves up in their chateaux; there worked, economized,
denied themselves, as the peasant is doing, purchased
the land piece by piece. Had they taken this course,
they would to-day possess France. Their wealth would
be enormous; for the value of land rises year after year.
I have, without effort, doubled my fortune in thirty
years. Blauville, which cost my father a hundred crowns
in 1817, is worth to-day more than a million: so that,
when I hear the nobles complain, I shrug the shoulder.
Who but they are to blame? They impoverish them-
selves from year to year. They sell their land to the
peasants. Soon they will be reduced to beggary, and
their escutcheons. What consoles me is, that the peas-
ant, having become the proprietor of our domains, will
then be all-powerful, and will yoke to his chariot wheels
these traders in scrip and stocks, whom he hates as
much as I execrate them myself."
The carriage at this moment stopped in the court of
the Hotel Commarin, after having described that per-
fect circle, the glory of coachmen who preserve the old
traditions.
The count alighted from the carriage, leaning upon
his son's arm, and ascended the steps of the grand en-
trance.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 173
In the immense vestibule, nearly all the servants,
dressed in rich liveries, stood in a line.
The count gave them a glance, in passing, as an offi-
cer might his soldiers on parade, and proceeded to his
apartments upon the second floor, above the reception
rooms.
Never was there a better regulated household than
that of the Hotel de Commarin,—a considerable estab-
lishment, too; for the count's fortune enabled him to
sustain a retinue greater than that of a German prince.
He possessed in a high degree the art, more rare than is
generally supposed, of commanding an army of ser-
vants.
According to Riviral, a man's manner of giving an
order to a lackey establishes his rank better than a hun-
dred genealogies on parchment.
The number of his domestics gave the count neither
inconvenience nor embarrassment. They were necessary
to him. Although he was exacting, never permitting the
expression, "I did not understand," he was rarely
heard to administer a reproof.
So perfect was the organization of this household,
that its functions were performed like those of a ma-
chine,—without noise, variation, or effort.
Thus, when the count returned from his journey, the
sleeping hotel was awakened as if by the spell of an en-
chanter. Each servant was at his post; and the occupa-
tions, interrupted during the past six weeks, resumed
without confusion. As the count was known to have
passed the day on the road, the dinner was served in
advance of the usual hour. All the establishment, even
to the lowest scullion, represented the spirit of the first
article of the rules of the house, " Servants are not to
execute orders, but anticipate them."


174 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
M. de Commarin had hardly removed the traces of
his journey, and changed his dress, when his Maitre d'
Hotel announced,—
"M. le Count is served."
He descended at once; and father and son met upon
the threshold of the dining-room.
This was a large apartment, very high in the ceiling,
as were all the rooms of the first floor, and was at once
magnificent and simple in its furniture and appoint-
ments.
One only of its four sideboards would have encum-
bered a dining-room of the Rue Malescherhes.
A collector of curiosities would have found much to
occupy his attention on those four sideboards, loaded as
they were with antique gold and silver plate, rare en-
amels, marvellous china, and porcelain that might make
a king of Saxony turn green with jealousy.
The table service, resplendent in silver and cut glass,
which occupied the middle of the room, was in keeping
with this luxury.
The count was not only a great eater, but was vain of
his enormous appetite,—the possession of which would
have been to a poor devil an awful calamity. He was
fond of recalling the names of great men, noted for
their capacity of stomach. Charles the fifth devoured
mountains of viands. Loufs XIV. swallowed at each
repast as much as six ordinary men. He argued, pleas-
antly, that we may judge of men's qualities by their di-
gestive capacities. He compared them to lamps, whose
power of giving light is in proportion to the oil they
consume.
The first half hour of dinner passed in silence. M. de
Commarin ate conscientiously, either not perceiving or
not caring to notice that his son ate nothing, but merely


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 175
sat at the table as if to countenance him. But with the
dessert the old nobleman's ill-humor and volubility re-
turned, apparently increased by the Burgundy, which
he drank unsparingly.
He was partial, moreover, to after dinner argument,
professing a theory that spirited discussion is a perfect
digestive. A letter which had been delivered to him on
his arrival, and which he had found time to glance over,
gave him at once a subject and a point of departure.
"I arrived here at one o'clock," said he; " and I have
already received a homily from Broisfresnay."
"He writes often," observed Albert.
"Too much; he consumes himself in ink. More ri-
diculous projects, vain hopes, veritable childishness!
and he mentions at least a dozen names of men high in
power as associates. By my word of honor, men seem
to have lost their senses! They talk of lifting the world,
only they want the lever and the point on which to rest
it. It makes me die with laughter!"
For ten minutes the count continued to discharge a
volley of epigrams and sarcasms against his best friends,
without seeming to see that a great many of the foibles
he ridiculed were his own as much as theirs.
"If," continued he more seriously,—" if they showed
any confidence in themselves, they might be entitled to
respect; but they have not even the virtue of courage.
They count upon others to do for them what they ought
to do for themselves. They are in continual quest of
some one better mounted, who will consent to take them
on his crupper. In short, their proceedings are a series
of confessions of helplessness, of premature declarations
of failure."
Coffee was served; and the count made a sign.
The servants left the room.


176 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"No," said the count, "I see but one hope for the
French aristocracy, but one plank of salvation, one good
little law, establishing the right of primogeniture."
"You will never obtain it, monsieur."
"You would oppose such a measure, viscount."
Albert knew by experience what dangerous ground
his father was approaching, and was silent.
"Let us put it, then, that I dream of the impossible!"
resumed the count. "Let the nobles do their duty.
When the younger sons and daughters of great houses
devote themselves to establish their families, by giving
up the entire patrimony to its first-born for five genera-
tions, contenting themselves each one with a hundred
louis a year, then only can great fortunes be recon-
structed, and families, instead of being divided by a
variety of interests, become united by a common
aspiration,—have a political influence, a position in
the State."
"Unfortunately," objected the viscount, " the time is
not favorable to such devotedness."
"I know it, monsieur," replied the count quickly;
"and in my own house I have proved it. I have con-
jured you to renounce the espousal of the granddaugh-
ter of this old fool, the Marquise d' Arlanges. To what
purpose?"
"My father—" Albert was beginning.
"It is well," interrupted the count. "You will take
your own course; but remember my prediction: you
will give the mortal blow to our house; you will be
one of the largest proprietors in France, but have half
a dozen children; and they will be hardly rich. Live to
be an old man, and you will see your grandchildren in
poverty!"
"You put all at the worst, father."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 177
"Without doubt: it is the only means of pointing out
the danger, and averting the evil. You talk of your
life's happiness. A truly noble man thinks of his name
and family before all, even his life's happiness. Made-
moiselle d' Arlanges is very pretty, and very attractive;
but she has not a sou. It is your duty to marry an heir-
ess."
"Whom I shall not love?"
"The same old song. Pshaw! the lady I wish you to
marry will bring you four millions in her apron,—a
larger dowry than the kings of to-day can give their
daughters."
The discussion upon this subject would have been in-
terminable, had Albert taken an active share in it; but
his mind was leagues away: and he answered from time
to time only, and then in monosyllables. This absence
of opposition was more irritating to the count than the
most obstinate contradiction. He directed his utmost
efforts to pique his son, that was his next tactique.
Meanwhile, he was vainly prodigal of words, and un-
sparing in provoking and unpleasant allusions. At
length, from being irritated, he became furious; and,
on receiving a laconic response, he burst forth,—
"Parbleu! the son of my Maitre d' Hotel argues no
worse than you. What blood have you in your veins?
You are more like a son of the people than a scion of
the de Commarins!"
There are certain conditions of mind in which the
least conversation jars upon the nerves. During the last
half hour, Albert had suffered an intolerable punish-
ment. The patience with which he had armed himself
at last escaped him.
"Well, monsieur," he answered, " if I resemble a son
of the people, there are perhaps good reasons for it."


178 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The glance accompanying the speech was so express-
ive that the count experienced a sudden shock. All the
animation departed from bis manner; and, in a hesitat-
ing voice, he demanded,—
"What do you say, viscount?"
Albert no sooner uttered the sentence than he re-
gretted his precipitation; but he had gone too far to re-
treat.
"Monsieur," he said with a peculiar calmness, "I
have to confer with you on important matters. My
honor, yours, the honor of our house, are involved. I
intended postponing the conversation till to-morrow,
not desiring to trouble you on the evening of your re-
turn; but you have introduced the topic, and we must
proceed."
The count listened with ill-concealed anxiety. He di-
vined the misfortune that had occurred, and was terri-
fied at himself for having divined it.
"Believe me, monsieur," continued Albert, "what-
ever may have been your acts, my voice will never
be raised to reproach you. Your constant goodness—"
M. de Commarin held up his hand.
"A truce to preambles; the facts without phrases,"
said he, sternly.
Albert was slow to answer: he hesitated where to
commence.
Monsieur," said he at length, "during your ab-
sence, I have read all your correspondence with Madame
Gerdy,—all!" emphasizing ths last word, already so
significant. •
The count started up, as if stung by a serpent, with
such violence that his chair rolled back several paces.
"Not a word!" cried he in a terrible voice. "I
forbid you to speak."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 179
He was ashamed of his violence, evidently; for he re-
placed his chair with an affectation of calmness.
"Who will hereafter refuse to believe in presenti-
ments?" he resumed in a tone which he strove to render
light and rallying. "An hour ago, on seeing your pale
face at the railway station, I felt that you had learned
something,—much or little,—of this history. I was sure
of it."
With one accord, father and son avoided letting their
eyes meet, lest they might encounter glances too
eloquent to bear at so painful a moment.
"You said, monsieur," said the count, "honor de-
mands this conference; it is important, then, to avoid
delay. Will you follow me to my room?"
He rang the bell. A valet appeared.
"Neither M. the viscount nor I am at home to any
one, no matter whom. We are not to be interrupted."
CHAPTER IX.
This revelation irritated, much more than surprised
the Count de Commarin.
Indeed, for twenty years, he had been expecting to see
the truth brought to light. He knew that there could be
no secret so carefully guarded that it might not by some
chance escape; and his had been known to four people,
three of whom were still living.
He had not forgotten that he had been imprudent
enough to trust this secret to paper, knowing all the
while that it ought never to have been written.
How could he, a prudent diplomat, a statesman, used
to precaution, have put it in writing? How, after writ-
ing, could he have allowed this fatal correspondence to


i8o THE WIDOW LEROUGE
remain in existence? Why had he not destroyed, at
whatever cost, these overwhelming proofs, which sooner
or later, would be brought against him? Such impru-
dence could only have been caused by an absurd passion,
blind, insensible, improvident even to madness.
It is characteristic of love to have such belief in its
continuance that it is scarcely satisfied with the pros-
pect of eternity. Absorbed completely in the present, it
takes no thought for the future.
Besides, what man ever dreams of putting himself on
his guard against the woman he loves? The enamored
Samson is ever ready to submit his hair to the scissors
of his Delilah.
So long as he was Valerie's lover, the count never
thought of asking the return of his letters from his
beloved accomplice. If the idea had occurred to him,
he would have repelled it as an insult to the character of
his angel.
What reason could he have had to suspect her discre-
tion? None. He would have been much more likely
to have supposed her interested in removing every trace,
even the slightest, of the occurrences which had taken
place. Was it not her son who had received the benefits
of the deed,—who had usurped another's name and
fortune?
When, eight years after, thinking himself deceived,
the count had broken off the connection which had given
him so much happiness, he thought of obtaining posses-
sion of this unhappy correspondence. But he knew no
way. A thousand reasons precluded his moving in the
matter.
The principal one of these reasons was, that he had
resolved never again to meet this woman, once so dearly
loved. He did not feel sufficiently sure either of his


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 181
anger or of his firmness. Could he, without yielding, re-
sist the tearful pleading of those eyes, which had so long
held complete sway over his soul?
To look again upon this mistress of his youth would,
he feared, result in his forgiving her; and he had been
too cruelly wounded in his pride and in his affection to
admit the idea of a reconciliation.
On the other hand, to obtain the letters through a
third party was entirely out of the question. He ab-
stained, then, from all action, postponing it indefinitely.
"I will go to her," said he; " but not until I have sq
torn her from my heart that she will have become indif-
ferent to me. I will not gratify her with the sight of
my grief."
So months and years passed on; and finally he began
to say and believe that it was too late.
The truth was, that there were memories which it
would have been imprudent to awake. By an unjusf
mistrust, he might provoke her to using the letters.
Can you better force a well-armed person to use his
arms than by demanding their surrender? After so
long a siience, to ask for the letters would be nearly the
same as declaring war. Besides, were they still in
existence? who could tell? what more likely than that
Madame Gerdy had destroyed them, understanding that
their existence was dangerous and that their destruction
alone could render her son's usurpation safe?
M. de Commarin was not blind; but, finding himself
in an inextricable difficulty, he thought the wisest course
was to trust to chance; and so he left open for his old
age this door to a guest who was always entering,—Un-
happiness.
And for now more than twenty years, he had never
passed a day without cursing his inexcusable folly.


182 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Never had he been able to forget that above his head
hung a danger more terrible than the sword of Damo-
cles, suspended by a thread, which the slightest accident
might break.
To-day this thread had broken.
Often, when considering the possibility of such a
catastrophe, he had asked himself how he should
avert it?
He had formed and rejected many plans; he had
deluded himself, like all men of imagination, who, with a
wealth of chimerical projects, find themselves at last
surprised while unprepared.
Albert stood respectfully, while his father sat in his
great armorial chair, just beneath the large chart, where
the genealogical tree of the illustrious family of Rheteau
de Commarin spread its luxuriant branches.
The old gentleman permitted no one to see the cruel
apprehensions which oppressed him. He seemed neither
irritated nor dejected; but his eyes expressed a haughti-
ness more than usually disdainful,—a self-reliance full
of contempt, rendering him imperturbable.
"Now, viscount," he began in a firm voice, "explain
yourself. I need say nothing to you of the pain of a
father, obliged to blush before his son; you feel, and
pity. Let us spare each other, and try to be calm. Tell
me, how did you obtain your knowledge of this corre-
spondence?"
Albert had had time to recover himself, and prepare
for the present struggle, as he had waited four days for
this interview with mortal impatience.
The difficulty he experienced in speaking the first
words had given place to a dignified and proud
demeanor. He expressed himself clearly and forcibly,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 183
without losing himself in those details which in grave
matters only retard progress.
"Monsieur," he replied, "on Monday morning a
young man appeared here, stating that he had business
with me of the utmost importance and secrecy. I
received him. He then revealed to me that I, alas! am
only your natural son, substituted, through your affec-
tion, for the legitimate child borne to you by Madame
de Commarin."
"And you did not kick this man out of doors?"
exclaimed the count.
"No, monsieur. I should have answered him very
sharply, of course; but, presenting me with a package
of letters, he begged me to read them before replying."
"Ah!" cried M. de Commarin, "you did not throw
them in the fire,—there was a fire, I suppose? You
held them in your hands; and they still exist. I would
have done very differently!"
"Monsieur!" said Albert, reproachfully.
And recalling the position Noel had occupied before
the mantel, and the manner in which he stood, he
added,—
"Even if the thought had occurred to me, it was im-
practicable. Besides, at the first glance, I recognized
your handwriting. I then took the letters, and read
them."
"And then?"
"And then, monsieur, I returned the correspondence
to the young man, and asked for a delay of eight days;
not to think over it myself.—there was no need of that,
—but because I judged an interview with you indispen-
sable. Now, therefore, I beseech you, tell me whether
this substitution ever took place."


184 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Certainly it did," replied the count violently,—,
"certainly. You know that it did; for you have read
what I wrote to Madame Gerdy, your mother."
Albert had foreseen, had expected this reply; but it
crushed him.
This was one of those misfortunes, so great, that you
have to keep repeating it to yourself before you can
actually realize it. This flinching lasted but an instant,
however.
"Pardon me, monsieur," he replied. "I believed it;
but I had not a formal assurance of it. All the letters
that I read spoke distinctly of your purpose, detailing
your plan minutely; but not one pointed to, or in any
way confirmed, the execution of the project."
The count gazed at his son with a look of intense sur-
prise. He recollected distinctly all the letters; and he
could remember, that, in writing to Valerie, he had
over and over rejoiced at their success, thanking her for
having acted in accordance with his wishes.
"You did not finish, then, viscount," he said, "you
did not read all?"
"Every line, monsieur, and with an attention that
you may well understand. The last letter shown me
simply announced to Madame Gerdy the arrival of
Claudine Lerouge, the nurse who was charged with ac-
complishing the exchange. I know nothing beyond
that."
"These proofs amount to nothing," muttered the
count. "A man may form a plan, cherish it for a long
time, and at the last moment abandon it; it often hap-
pens so."
He reproached himself for having answered so has-
tily. Albert had had only serious suspicions: he had
changed them to certainty. What a mistake!


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 185
"There can be no possible doubt,'' he said to himself;
"Valerie has destroyed the most conclusive letters,
those which appeared to her the most dangerous, those
I wrote after the exchange. But why has she preserved
these others, compromising enough in themselves? and
why, after having preserved them, has she let them out
of her possession?"
"Perhaps she is dead!" said M. de Commarin aloud.
And at this thought of Valerie dead, without his hav-
ing again seen her, he started painfully. His heart, after
more than twenty years of voluntary separation, still
suffered, so deeply rooted was this first love of his
youth. He had cursed her; at this moment, he would
have pardoned her. She had deceived him, it is true;
but did he not owe to her the only years of happiness
he had ever known? Had she not formed all the poetry
of his youth. Had he experienced, since leaving her,
one single hour of happiness? In his present frame of
mind, "his heart retained only happy memories, like a
vase which, once filled with the precious perfumes, re-
tains the odor even after it is itself destroyed.
"Poor girl!" he murmured.
He sighed deeply. Three or four times his eyelids
twinkled, as if a tear had nearly fallen. Albert watched
him with anxious curiosity. This was the first time
since the viscount had grown to man's estate that he
had surprised in his father's countenance other emo-
tion than ambition or pride, conquered or triumphant.
But M. de Commarin's was not the character to yield
long to sentiment.
"You have not told me, viscount," he said, "who
sent you this unhappy message?"
"He came in person, monsieur, not wishing, he told
me, to bring a third party into the sad affair. The young


186 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
man was no other than he whose place I have occupied,
—your legitimate son, Noel Gerdy himself."
"Yes," said the count in a low tone, " Noel; that is
his name: I remember." And then, with evident hesi-
tation, he added, " did he speak to you of his—of your
mother?"
"Scarcely, monsieur. He told me that he had been
brought up in ignorance of the secret which he had ac-
cidentally discovered, and which he revealed to me."
M. de Commarin made no reply. There was nothing
more for him to learn. He was reflecting. The decisive
moment had come; and he saw but one way to escape.
"Come Viscount," he said, in a tone so affectionate
that Albert was astonished, "do not stand; sit down
here by me, and let us discuss this matter. Let us unite
our efforts to shun, if possible, this great misfortune.
Confide in me, as a son should in his father. Have you
thought of what is to be done ? have you formed any de-
termination?"
"It seems to me, monsieur, that hesitation is impos-
sible."
"In what way?"
"My duty, father, to me is very plain. Before your
legitimate son, I ought to give way without a murmur,
if not without regret. Let him come. I am ready to
yield to him every thing that I have so long, without a
suspicion of the truth, kept from him,—a father's love,
his fortune and his name."
The old gentleman, at this most praiseworthy reply,
could scarcely preserve the calmness he had recom-
mended to his son in the earlier part of the interview.
His face grew purple; and he struck the table with
his fist more furiously than he had ever done in his life.
He, usually so guarded, so decorous on all occasions, ut-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 187
tered a volley of oaths that would not have done dis-
credit to an old cavalry officer.
"And I tell you, sir, that this, your dream of life,
shall never take place. No; that it sha'n't. I promise
you, whatever happens, understand, that things must
remain as they are; because it is my wish. You are
Viscount de Commarin; and Viscount de Commarin
you shall remain, in spite of yourself. You shall retain
the title to your death, or at least to mine; for never,
while I live, shall your absurd idea be carried out."
"But, monsieur," began Albert, timidly.
"You are very fond of interrupting me while I am
speaking, monsieur," exclaimed the count. "Do I not
know all your objections beforehand? You are going to
tell me that it is a revolting injustice, a wicked robbery.
I confess it, and grieve over it more than you possibly
can. Do you think that I now for the first time repent
of my youthful folly? For twenty years, monsieur, I
have lamented my true son; for twenty years have I
cursed the wickedness of which he is the victim. And
yet I taught myself to keep silence, to hide the sorrow
and the remorse which has covered my pillow with
thorns. In a single instant, your senseless yielding,
would render my long-suffering of no avail. No, I will
never permit it!"
The count read a reply on his son's lips; he stopped
him with a withering glance.
"Do you think," he continued. "that I have never
wept over the thought of my legitimate son passing his
life struggling for a competence? Do you think that I
have never felt a burning desire to repair the wrong
done him? There have been times, monsieur, when I
would have given half of my fortune simply to embracr
that child of a wife too tardily appreciated. The fear


188 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
of casting a shadow of suspicion upon your birth pre-
vented me. I have sacrificed myself to the great name I
bear. I received it from my ancestors without a stain.
May you hand it down to your children equally spot-
less! Your first purpose is a worthy one,—noble, chiv-
alrous, but you must forget it. Think of the scandal,
if our secret should be disclosed to the public gaze. Can
you not foresee the joy of that herd of parvenues who
surround us? I shudder at the thought of the odium,
the ridicule which will attach to our name. Too many
families already have stains upon their escutcheons; I
hope ours will never be among the number."
M. de Commarin had stopped several minutes, with-
out Albert's daring to reply, so much had he been ac-
customed since infancy to respect the least wish of the
terrible old gentleman.
"There is no possible way out of it," continued the
count. "Shall I to-morrow discard you, and present
this Noel as my son, saying, ' Excuse me, but there has
been a slight mistake in identity: I didn't know my own
son?' And then the tribunals will get hold of it. Now,
if our name were Benoit, Durand, or Bernard, it would
make no difference; but, when one is called a Commarin,
even but for a single day, he must retain it through
life. Justice is not the same in every case; because all
have not the same duties. In our position, errors are ir-
reparable. Take courage, then, and show yourself
worthy of the name you bear. The storm is upon you;
raise your head to meet it."
Albert's impassibility contributed not a little to in-
crease M. de Commarin's irritation. Firm in an un-
changeable resolution, the viscount listened like one ful-
filling a duty; and his face reflected no emotion. The
count saw that he was not shaken.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
189
"What have you to reply?" he asked.
"It seems to me, monsieur, that you do not under-
stand all the dangers to which I am exposed. It is dif-
ficult to master the revolts of conscience."
"Indeed!" interrupted the count contemptuously;
"your conscience revolts, does it? It has chosen its time
badly. Your scruples come too late. So long as you
saw, in succeeding me, an illustrious title and a dozen
or so of millions, it smiled on you. To-day the name
appears to you laden with a heavy fault,—a crime, if
you will; and your conscience revolts. Renounce this
folly. Children, monsieur, are accountable to their I
fathers; and they should obey them. Willing or un-l
willing, you must be my accomplice; willing or un-
willing, you must bear the burden, as I have borne it.
And, however much you suffer, be assured it can
never approach what I have endured for so many
years."
"Ah, monsieur!" cried Albert, " is it then I, the dis-
possessor, who has made this trouble? is it not, on the
contrary, the dispossessed? It is not I who have moved
in the matter; it is Noel Gerdy."
"Noel!" repeated the count.
"Your legitimate son, yes, monsieur. You act as if
the issue of this unhappy affair depended solely upon
my will. Do you, then, imagine that Noel Gerdy will
be so easily disposed of, so easily silenced? And, if
he should raise his voice, do you hope to accomplish
much through the considerations you have just men-
tioned?"
"I have no doubt of it."
"Then you are wrong, monsieur, permit me to tell
you. Suppose for a moment that this young man has
ever had a soul sufficiently noble to relinquish his claim


190 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
upon your rank and your fortune. Is there not now
the accumulated rancor of years to urge him to oppose
us? He cannot help feeling a fierce resentment for the
horrible injustice of which he has been the victim. He
must passionately long for vengeance, or rather repara-
tion."
"He has no proofs."
"He has your letters, monsieur."
"They are not decisive, you have told me."
"That is true, monsieur; and yet they convinced me,
who am interested in not being convinced. Besides if
he needs witnesses, he will find them."
"Who? You, probably."
"Yourself, monsieur. The day when he wishes it,
you will betray us. Suppose you were summoned be-
fore the tribunals, and that there, under oath, you should
be required to speak the truth, what answer would you
make?"
M. de Commarin's face darkened at this very natural
supposition. He hesitated,—he whose honor was usu-
ally so great.
"I would save the name of my ancestors," he said
at last.
Albert shook his head doubtfully,
"At the price of a lie, my father," he said. "I never
will believe that. But let us suppose even that. He
will then call upon Madame Gerdy."
"Oh, I will answer for her!" cried the count; "her
interests are the same as ours. If necessary, I will see
her. Yes," he added with an effort, " I will go to her
house: I will speak to her; and I will guarantee that she
does not betray us."
"And Claudine," continued the young man; "will
she be silent, too?"


192 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
He had also the misfortune of all men of imagina-
tion, who fall in love with their projects, and who try
to make them succeed on all occasions, as if wishing
hard was all that was necessary to change their dreams
into realities.
Albert this time broke the silence, whose length
threatened to be prolonged.
"I see, monsieur," he said, "that you fear, above
all things, the publicity of this sad history; the possible
scandal renders you desperate. But, unless we yield,
the uproar will be terrible. If a writ issued against
us to-morrow; in four days our trial will be the talk of all
Europe. The newspapers will print the facts, accom-
panied by heaven knows what comments of their own.
Our name, however the trial results, will appear in all
the papers of the world. This might be borne, if we
were sure of succeeding; but we might fail, my father,
—we might fail. Then think of the noise, think of the
dishonor branded upon us in public opinion."
"I think," said the count, " that you can have neither
respect nor affection for me, when you speak in that
way."
"It is my duty, monsieur, to point out to you the
evils I see threatening, and which there is yet time to
shun. Noel Gerdy is your legitimate son ; recognize him,
acknowledge his just pretensions, receive him. We can
make the change very quickly It is easy to account for
it, through a mistake of the nurse,—Claudine Lerouge,
for instance. All the parties being in accord, there can
be no trouble made. What is to prevent the new Vis-
count de Commarin from quitting Paris, and being lost
to sight? He might travel in Europe four or five years;
by the end of that time all would be forgotten. No one
will remember me more."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 193
M. de Commarin was not listening: he was deep in
thought.
"But instead of contesting, viscount," he cried, " we
might compromise. We may be able to purchase these
letters. What does this young fellow want? A
position and a fortune? I will give him both. I will
make him as rich as he can ask. I will give him a
million; if need be, two, three,—half of all I possess.
With money, you see, much money—"
"Spare him, monsieur; he is your son."
"Curse it! and I wish him to the devil for it! I will
show him that he had better compromise. I will prove
to him the bad policy of the earthen pot beating against
the iron kettle; and, if he is not a fool, he will under-
stand it."
The count rubbed his hands while speaking. He was
delighted with this brilliant plan of negotiation. It
could not fail to result favorably. A crowd of argu-
ments occurred to his mind for proving his case. He
would buy back again his lost quiet.
But Albert did not seem to share his father's hopes.
"You will perhaps think it unkind in me, monsieur,"
said he sadly, " to dispel this last illusion of yours; but
it must be. Do not delude yourself with the idea of an
amicable arrangement: the awakening will only be the
more painful. I have seen this Gerdy, my father; and
he is not one, I assure you, to be intimidated. If ever
there was an energetic will in the world, his is one. He
is truly your son; and his expression, like yours, shows
an iron resolution, to be broken but never bent. I can
still hear his voice trembling with resentment, while
he spoke to me. I can still see the dark fire of his eyes.
No: he will never compromise. He will have all or
nothing; and I cannot say that he is wrong. If we re-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
sist, he will attack us without the slightest considera-
tion. Strong in his rights, he will cling to us with stub-
born animosity. He will drag us from court to court;
he will not stop short of utter defeat or complete tri-
umph."
Accustomed to absolute, almost unresisting obedience
from his son, the old gentleman was astounded at this
unexpected obstinacy.
"What is your purpose, then?" he asked.
"It is this, monsieur. I should utterly despise my-
self, if I did not spare your old age this greatest of cal-
amities. Your name does not belong to me; I will take
my own. I am your natural son. I will yield to your
legitimate child. Permit me to withdraw with at least
the honor of having freely done my duty. Do not force
me to await arrest by the tribunal, which would drive
me out in disgrace."
"What I" cried the count stunned, "you will aban-
don me? You refuse to sustain me, you turn against
me, recognize the rights of this man, in spite of my
wishes?"
Albert bowed. He was much moved, but still remained
firm.
"My resolution is irrevocably taken," he replied. "I
can never consent to despoil your son."
"Cruel, ungrateful boy!" cried M. de Commarin.
His wrath was such, that, when he found he could do
nothing by abuse, he passed at once to jeering.
"But no," he continued, "you are great, you are
noble, you are generous; you are acting after the most
approved pattern of chivalry, viscount,—I should say,
my very dear Monsieur Gerdy,—after the fashion in
Plutarch's time! So you renounce my name, my for-
tune, and you leave me. You will shake the dust from


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 195
your shoes upon my threshold; and you will go out
into the world. I see only one difficulty in your way.
How do you expect to live, my stoic philosopher?
Have you an estate at your fingers' ends, like Jean
Jacques' Emile? Or, my worthy Monsieur Gerdy, have
you learned economy from the four thousand francs
a month I allow you for waxing your moustache? Per-
haps you will gamble at the Bourse! Then you will up-
hold my name with a vengeance,—my name, that seems
to you so very burdensome to wear. Is dirt, then, so
great an attraction for you that you must jump from the
carriage so eagerly? Say, rather, that the company of
my friends embarrasses you, and that you are anxious
to go where you will be among your own equals."
"I am very wretched, monsieur," replied Albert to
this avalanche of insults, "and you would crush me!"
"You wretched! Well, whose fault is it? But let
us get back to my question; how and on what will you
live?"
"I am not so romantic as you are pleased to suggest,
monsieur. I must confess that, for the future, I have
counted upon your goodness. You are so rich, that
five hundred thousand francs would not materially af-
fect your fortune; and, on the income of that sum, I
could live quietly, if not happily."
"And if I should refuse you this money?"
"I know you well enough, monsieur, to feel sure that
you will not refuse it. You are too just to wish that I
should expiate alone the wrongs that were not of my
making. Left to myself, I should have, at my present
age, achieved a position. It is too late for me to make
one now; but I can at least try."
"Superb!" broke in the count; "this is superb! I
never heard of such a hero of romance. What a char


196 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
acter. It has all the purity of Rome, all the firmness
of Sparta. It is as grand as any thing in antiquity.
But tell me, what do you expect from all this astonish-
ing disinterestedness?"
"Nothing, monsieur."
The count shrugged his shoulders, looking sarcas-
tically at his son.
"The compensation is very slight. And you expect
to make me believe it? No, monsieur, mankind is not
in the habit of doing such fine actions for its own satis-
faction. You have some reason for acting so grandly,
which I fail to catch."
"None but what I have already told you.
"Then you intend to renounce every thing; you will
even abandon your proposed union with Mademoiselle
Claire d'Arlanges? You forget that for two years I
have in vain begged you to give this marriage up."
"No, monsieur. I have seen Claire. I have ex-
plained my unhappy position to her. Whatever happens,
she has sworn to be my wife."
"And do you think that Madame d'Arlanges will
give her granddaughter to plain Monsieur Gerdy?"
"I hope so, monsieur. The marquise is sufficiently
infected with nobility to prefer the natural child of a
gentleman to the son of some honest tradesman; but if
she refuses,—ah! well, we will await her death, though
without desiring it."
Albert's uniformly calm tone enraged the count.
"Can this be my son?" he cried. "Never! What
blood have you in your veins, monsieur? Perhaps your
worthy mother might tell us, provided she ever knew
herself."
"Monsieur," broke in Albert, fiercely, "think well
before you speak. She is my mother, and that is suf-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 197
ficient. I am her son, not her judge. No one in my
presence shall speak disrespectfully of her: I will not
permit it, monsieur; and I will suffer it least of all from
you."
The count used truly heroic efforts to keep his anger
within bounds; but he was beside himself at Albert's
position. What, he rebelled, he dared to brave him to
his face, he threatened him! The old man jumped from
his chair, and moved toward his son as if he would
strike him.
"Leave the room!" he cried, in a voice choking with
rage,—" leave the room instantly! Retire to your
apartments, and take care not to leave them with-
out my orders. To-morrow I will give you my de-
cision."
Albert bowed respectfully, but without lowering his
eyes, and walked slowly to the door. He had already
opened it, when M. de Commarin experienced one of
those revulsions of feeling, so frequent in violent na-
tures.
"Albert," said he, "come back and listen to me."
The young man turned, much affected by this change
of tone.
"Do not go," continued the count, "until I have
asked your pardon. You are worthy of being the heir of
a great house, monsieur. I may be irritated by you; but
I can never lose my esteem for you. You are a noble
man, Albert. Give me your hand."
This was a happy moment for both, and such a one
as they had scarcely ever experienced in their lives, re-
strained as they had been by cold etiquette. The count
felt proud of his son, and recognized in him himself at
that age. As for Albert, the real meaning of the scene
then occurring impressed him: it had until now escaped


198 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
him. For a long time their hands remained clasped,
without either being able to utter a word.
At last, M. de Commarin resumed his seat beneath
the genealogical chart.
"I must ask you to leave me, Albert," he said frankly.
"I must be alone, to reflect upon, to try and accustom
myself to this terrible blow."
And, as the young man closed the door, he added, as
if giving vent to his inmost thoughts,—,
"If he deserts me, in whom I have placed all my
hope, what will become of me? O my God! And what
can the other ever be to me?"
Albert's features, when he left the count's study, bore
traces of the violent emotions he had felt during the in-
terview. The servants whom he met noticed it the more,
as they had heard something of the quarrel.
"Well," said an old footman who had been in the
family thirty years, " the count has had another unhappy
scene with his son. The old fellow has been in a dread-
ful passion."
"I got wind of it at dinner," spoke up a valet de
chambre: "the count restrained himself enough not to
burst out before me; but he rolled his eyes fiercely."
"What can be the matter?"
"Pshaw! that's more than they know themselves.
Why, Denis, before whom they always speak freely,
says that they often wrangle for hours together, like
dogs, about things which he can never see through."
"Ah," cried out a young fellow, who was being
trained to service, "if I were in the viscount's place,
I'd settle the old gent pretty effectually!"
"Joseph, my friend," said the footman pointedly,
"you are a fool. You might give your father his walk-
ing ticket very properly, because you never expect five


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
sous from him; and you have already learned how to
earn your living without doing any work at all. But
the viscount, pray tell me what he is good for, what he
knows how to do? Put him in the centre of Paris, with
only his fine hands for capital, and you will see."
"Yes, but he has his mother's property in Nor-
mandy," replied Joseph.
"I can't for the life of me," said the valet de chambre,
"see what the count finds to complain of; for his son
is a perfect model, and I shouldn't be sorry to have one
like him. There was a very different pair, when I was
in the Marquis de Courtivois's service. He was one
who made it a point never to be in good humor. His
eldest son, who is a friend of the viscount's, and who
comes here occasionally, is a pit without a bottom, as
far as money is concerned. He will fritter away a thou-
sand-franc note quicker than Joseph can smoke a pipe."
"But the marquis is not rich," said a little old man,
who himself had perhaps the enormous wages of fifteen
francs; " he can't have more than sixty thousand francs'
income at the most."
"That's why he gets angry. Every day there is some
new story about his son. He had an apartment in the
house; he went in and out when he pleased; he passed
his nights in gaming and drinking; he cut up so with
the actresses that the police had to interfere. Besides
all this, I have many a time had to help him up to his
room, and put him to bed. when the waiters from the
restaurants brought turn home in a carriage, so drunk
that he could scarcely say a word."
"Ha!" exclaimed Joseph enthusiastically, "this fel-
low's service must be mighty profitable."
"That was according to circumstances. When he
won at play, he was lavish with his money; but he al-


20o THE WIDOW LEROUGE
ways lost: and, when he was drunk, he had a quick tem-
per, and didn't spare the blows. I must do him the jus-
tice to say, though, that his cigars were splendid. But
he was a ruffian; while the viscount here is a true child
of wisdom. He is severe upon our faults, it is true;
but he is never harsh nor brutal to his servants. Then
he is uniformly generous; which in the long run pays
us best. I must say that he is better than the majority,
and that the count is very unreasonable."
Such was the judgment of the servants. That of so-
ciety was perhaps less favorable.
The Viscount de Commarin was not one of those
who possess the rather questionable and at times unen-
viable accomplishment of pleasing every one. He was
wise enough to distrust those astonishing personages
who are always praising everybody. In looking about
us, we often see men of success and reputation, who are
simply dolts, without any merit except their perfect in-
significance. That stupid propriety which offends no
one, that uniform politeness which shocks no one's van-
ity, have peculiarly the gift of pleasing and of succeed-
ing.
One cannot meet certain persons without saying, " I
know that face; I have seen it somewhere, before; " be-
cause it has no individuality, but simply resembles faces
seen in a common crowd. It is precisely so with the
minds of certain other people. When they speak, you
know exactly what they are going to say: you have
heard the same thing so many times already from them,
you know all their ideas by heart. These people are
welcomed everywhere: because they have nothing pe-
culiar about them; and peculiarity, especially in the up-
per classes, is always irritating and offensive: they de-
test all innovations.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 201
Albert was peculiar; consequently much discussed,
and very differently estimated. He was charged with
sins of the most opposite character, with faults so con-
tradictory that they were their own defence. Some ac-
cused him, for instance, of entertaining ideas entirely too
liberal for one of his rank; and, at the same time, others
complained of his excessive arrogance. He was charged
with treating with insulting levity the most serious
questions, and was then blamed for his affectation of
gravity. People knew him scarcely well enough to love
him, while they were jealous of him and feared him.
He wore a bored look in all fashionable reunions,
which was considered very bad taste. Forced by his
relations, by his father, to go into society a great deal,
he was bored, and committed the unpardonable sin of
letting it be seen. Perhaps he had been disgusted by
the constant court made to him, by the rather coarse
attentions which were never spared the noble heir of one
of the richest families in France. Having all the nec-
essary qualities for shining, he despised them. Dread-
ful sin! he did not abuse his advantages; and no one
ever heard of his getting into a scrape.
He had had once, it was said, a very decided liking
for Madame Prosny, perhaps the naughtiest, certainly
the most mischievous woman in Paris; but that was all.
Mothers who had daughters to dispose of upheld him;
but, for the last two years, they had turned against him,
when his love for Mademoiselle d'Arlanges became well
known.
At the club they rallied him on his prudence. He
had had, like others, his run of follies; but he had soon
got disgusted with what it is the fashion to call pleas-
ure. The noble profession of bon vivant appeared to
him very tame and tiresome. He did not enjoy passing


202 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
his nights at cards; nor did he appreciate the society of
those frail sisters, who in Paris give notoriety to their
lovers. He affirmed that a gentleman was not neces-
sarily an object of ridicule because he would not expose
himself in the theatre with these women. Finally, none
of his friends could ever inoculate him with a passion
for the turf.
As doing nothing wearied him, he attempted, like the
parvenu, to give some meaning to life by work. He
purposed, after a while, to take part in public affairs;
and, as he had often been struck with the gross ignor-
ance of many men in power, he wished to avoid their
example. He busied himself with politics; and this was
the cause of all his quarrels with his father. The one
word of " liberal" was enough to throw the count into
convulsions; and he suspected his son of liberalism, ever
since reading an article by the viscount, published in
the " Revue des Deux Mondes."
His ideas, however, did not prevent his fully sustain-
ing his rank. He spent most nobly on the world the
revenue which placed his father and himself a little
above it. His establishment, distinct from the count's,
was arranged as that of a wealthy young gentleman's
ought to be. His liveries left nothing to be desired; and
his horses and equipages were celebrated. Letters of
invitation were eagerly sought for to the grand hunting
parties, which he formed every year towards the end
of October at Commarin,—an admirable piece of prop-
erty, covered with immense woods.
Albert's love for Claire—a deep, well-considered love
—had contributed not a little to keep him from the hab-
its and life of the pleasant and elegant idleness indulged
in by his friends. A noble attachment is always a great
safeguard. In contending against it, M. de Commarin


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 203
had only succeeded in increasing its intensity and in-
suring its continuance. This passion, so annoying to
the count, was the source of the most vivid, the most
powerful emotions in the viscount. Ennui was ban-
ished from his existence.
All his thoughts took the same direction; all his ac-
tions had but one aim. Could he look to the right or
the left, when, at the end of his journey, he perceived
the reward so ardently desired? He resolved that he
would never have any wife but Claire; his father ab-
solutely refused his consent. The effort to change this
refusal had long been the business of his life. Finally,
after three years of perseverance, he had triumphed;
the count had given his consent. And now, just as he
was reaping the happiness of success, Noel had arrived,
implacable as fate, with his cursed letters.
On leaving M. de Commarin, and while slowly
mounting the stairway which led to his apartment, Al-
bert's thoughts reverted to Claire. What was she do-
ing at this moment? Thinking of him, without a doubt.
She knew that the crisis would come this very evening,
or to-morrow at the latest. She must be praying.
Albert felt broken down. His suffering was intense.
He felt dizzy; his head seemed ready to burst. He rang
and ordered some tea.
"Monsieur does wrong in not sending for the doc-
tor," said Lubin, his valet de chambre. "I ought to dis-
obey you, and send for him myself."
"It would be useless," replied Albert sadly; "he
could do nothing for my illness."
As the valet was leaving the room, he added,—
"Say nothing about my suffering to any one, Lubin:
it is nothing at all. If I am really ill, I will ring."
At this moment, to see any one, to hear a voice, to


204 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
have to reply, seemed insupportable. He longed to be
left entirely to himself.
After the painful emotions arising from his explana-
tions with the count, he could not sleep. He opened
one of the library windows, and leaned against the
casement. It was a beautiful night: and there was a
lovely moon. Seen at this hour, by the mild, tremulous
evening light, the gardens seemed twice their usual size.
The motionless tops of the great trees stretched away
like an immense plain, hiding the neighboring houses.
The clumps in the flower garden, set off by the green
shrubbery, appeared like great black figures; while in the
carefully sanded walks sparkled particles of shell, little
pieces of glass, and the polished pebbles. At the right,
in the still lighted servants' quarters, could be heard the
servants passing to and fro; and the step of a groom
sounded on the pavement in the court. The horses
stamped in the stable; and the rattling of their halter
chains against the bars of the manger could be distin-
guished. In the carriage-house they were unharnessing
the vehicle, always kept ready throughout the evening,
in case the count should wish to go out.
Albert had there under his eyes a complete picture of
his magnificence. He sighed deeply.
"Must I, then lose all this? " he murmured. "I can
scarcely, even for myself, abandon so many splendors
without regret; and thinking of Claire makes it harder.
Have I not dreamed of a life of exceptional happi-
ness for her, almost impossible to realize without
wealth?"
Midnight sounded from St. Clotilde, whose twin
arrows he could perceive by leaning slightly forward.
He shivered; it was growing cold.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 205
He closed his window, and sat down near the fire,
which he stirred up. In the hope of obtaining a respite
from his thoughts he took up the evening paper, in
which was an account of the assassination at Jonchere;
but he found it impossible to read. The lines danced
before his eyes. Then he thought of writing to Claire.
He sat down at his desk, and wrote, " My dearly loved
Claire." He could go no further; his distracted brain
could not furnish him with a single sentence.
At last, at break of day, weariness overpowered him,
sleep surprised him, on a sofa, where he had thrown
himself,—a heavy sleep peopled with phantoms.
At half-past nine in the morning, he was awakened
with a start, by the noise of his door being opened with
a crash.
A servant entered, frightened, so breathless, having
come up the stairway four steps at a time, that he could
scarcely speak.
"Monsieur," said he, " viscount, quick, fly, hide your-
self, save yourself: they are here, they—"
A commissary of police in uniform appeared at the
library door. He was followed by a number of men,
among whom could be seen, keeping as much out of
sight as possible, Pere Tabaret.
The commissary approached Albert.
"You are," he asked, " Guy Louis Marie Albert de
Rheteau de Commarin?"
"Yes, monsieur."
The commissary raised his hand, while pronouncing
the usual formula.
"Monsieur de Commarin, in the name of the law I
arrest you."
"Me, monsieur? me?"


2o6 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Albert, aroused suddenly from his painful dreams,
seemed hardly to comprehend what was taking place.
He seemed to ask himself,—
"Am I really awake? Is not this some hideous
nightmare?"
He threw a stupid look, much to the astonishment
of the commissary of police, upon the men, and upon
Pere Tabaret, who acted very much as though he was
the one arrested.
"Here is the warrant," added the commissary, un-
folding the paper.
Mechanically Albert glanced over it.
"Claudine assassinated!" he cried.
Then very low, but distinct enough to be heard by the
commissary, by one of the officers, and by Pere Tabaret,
he added,—
"I am lost!"
While the commissary was making the formal in-
quiries, which immediately follow all arrests, the of-
ficers spread through the apartment, and proceeded to a
searching examination of them: they had received or-
ders to obey Pere Tabaret; and the old fellow guided
them in their researches, made them ransack drawers
and closets, and move the furniture. They seized quite
a number of articles belonging to the viscount,—papers,
manuscripts, and a very voluminous correspondence;
but it was with especial delight that Pere Tabaret put
.his hands on certain articles, which were carefully de-
scribed in order in the official report.
i. In the first room,—a waiting-room, hung with all
sorts of weapons,—behind a sofa, a broken foil. This
foil had a peculiar handle, and was unlike those com-
monly sold. It bore the count's coronet, with the in-
itials A. C. It had been broken at about the middle;


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 207
and the end could not be found. When asked, the vis-
count declared that he could give no account as to what
had become of the missing end.
2. In the dressing-room, pantaloons of black cloth
still wet, bearing stains of mud or dirt. All one side
was covered with greenish moss, as if the wearer had
climbed over a wall. In front, there were numerous
rents; and near the knee was one ten centimetres long.
The aforesaid pantaloons had not been hung up in the
wardrobe, but appeared to have been hidden between
two large trunks of clothing.
3. In the pocket of the above-described pantaloons
were found a pair of pearl-gray gloves. The palm of
the right hand glove showed a large greenish stain,
produced by grass or moss. The end of the fingers had
been worn by rubbing. Upon the back of both gloves,
scratches were noticed, evidently made by finger-nails.
4. Two pairs of boots, one of which, well cleaned,
were still damp; an umbrella recently wetted, the end
of which was still covered with white mud.
5. In a large room, called "the library," a box of
cigars of the trabucos brand, and upon the mantel a
number of cigar-holders in amber and meerschaum.
The last article noted down, Pere Tabaret approached
the commissary of police.
"I have every thing I could desire," he whispered.
"And I have finished, too," replied the commissary.
"This chap here don't seem to know exactly how to act.
Do you see? He gave in on the first attack. I suppose
you will call it lack of experience."
"Before the day is over," replied the amateur de-
tective in a whisper. " he won't be quite so crest-fallen.
But now, suddenly awakened, you know— Always
arrest them early in the morning; take them in bed be-
fore they are awake."
"I have spoken with two or three of the servants.
They tell some singular stories."


208 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Very well: we shall see. But I must hurry and find
Ihe judge of inquiry, who will be impatient."
Albert began to revive a little from the stupor into
which he had been plunged on the entrance of the com-
missary of police.
"Monsieur," he asked, "will you permit me to say
a few words in your presence to the Count de Com-
marin? I am a victim of some mistake, which will be
quickly remedied."
"It's always a mistake," muttered Pere Tabaret.
"What you ask is impossible," replied the commis-
sary. "I have special orders of the strictest sort. You
cannot henceforth communicate with a living soul. A
carriage is in waiting below. Will you descend?"
In crossing the vestibule, Albert noticed great agita-
tion among the servants. They all seemed to have lost
their senses. Denis gave orders in a sharp, imperative
tone. Then he thought he heard that the Count de Com-
marin had been struck with apoplexy. After that, he
remembered nothing.
They almost carried him to the carriage; which drove
off as fast as the two little horses could go. A more
rapid vehicle bore away Pere Tabaret.
CHAPTER X.
The visitor who risks himself in the labyrinth of
galleries and stairways in the palais de justice, and
mounts to the third story in the left wing, will find
himself in a long, low-studded gallery, badly lighted by
narrow windows, and pierced at short intervals by little
doors, like a hall at the ministry or at a lodging-house.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 209
It is a place difficult to view calmly, the imagination
makes it appear so dark and dismal.
It needs a Dante to compose an inscription to place
above the doors which lead from it. From morning to
night, the flagstones resound under the heavy tread of
the gendarmes, who accompany the prisoners. You
can scarcely recall any thing but sad figures there.
There are the parents or friends of the accused, the wit-
nesses, the detectives. In this gallery, far from the
sight of men, the judicial curriculum is gone through
with.
Each one of the little doors, which has its number
painted over it in black, opens into the office of a judge
of inquiry. All the rooms are just alike: if you see one,
you have seen them all. They have nothing terrible
nor sad in themselves; and yet it is difficult to enter
one of them without a shudder. They are cold. The
walls all seem moist with the tears which have been
shed there. You shudder, at thinking of the avowals
wrested from criminals, of the confessions broken with
sobs murmured there.
In the office of the judge of inquiry, Justice clothes
herself in none of that apparel which she afterwards
dons in order to strike fear into the masses. She is still
simple, and almost disposed to kindness. She says to
the prisoner,—
"I have strong reasons for thinking you guilty;
but prove to me your innocence, and I will release
you."
On entering one of these rooms, a stranger wot1'
imagine that he got into a cheap shop by mistake,
furniture is of the most primitive sort, as is the
all places where important matters are tran?'
what consequence are surroundings to the


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 211
He kept repeating this to himself; and yet he could
not quiet this dreadful anxiety, which would not give
him a moment's rest.
He wondered why his people were so long in making
their appearance. He walked up and down the room,
counting the minutes, drawing out his watch three times
within the quarter of an hour, to compare it with the
clock. Hearing a step in the gallery, nearly deserted at
that hour, he involuntarily moved near the door, stopped
and listened.
Some one knocked. It was his clerk, late this morn-
ing.
There was nothing particular in this man; he was
long rather than large, and very slim. His gait was
precise, his gestures methodical; his face was as im-
passive as if it had been cut out of a piece of yellow
wood.
He was thirty-four years of age, and since thirty had
taken minutes of examination for four judges of in-
quiry in succession. It is said that he could hear, with-
out moving a muscle, the most utter absurdities.
An ingenious writer has thus defined a clerk, " A pen
for the judge of inquiry; a personage who is dumb but
speaks, who is blind but writes, who is deaf but hears."
This man answered the definition. His name was Con-
stant.
He bowed to the judge, and excused himself for his
tardiness. He had been busy with his book-keeping,
which he did every morning; and he had got so inter-
ested in it that his wife had had to remind him of the
way time was passing.
"You are still in good time," said Daburon; "but
we shall have plenty of work: so you had better get your
papers ready."


212 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Five minutes later, the usher introduced Noel Gerdy.
He entered with an easy manner, like an advocate
who had considerable practice in the palais, and who
knew its ways. He in no way resembled, this morning,
the friend of Pere Tabaret; still less could he have been
recognized as the lover of Madame Juliette. He was
entirely another being, or rather he had resumed his
customary role.
It was now the official who appeared,—one who rec-
ognized his confreres, esteemed his friends, was be-
loved in the circle of his acquaintance.
From his firm step, his placid face, one would never
imagine that, after an evening of emotion and excite-
ment, after a stolen visit to his mistress, he had passed
the night by the pillows of a dying woman, and that wo-
man his mother, or at least the one who had filled his
mother's place.
What a contrast between him and the judge!
The judge had not slept either; and you could see lack
of rest in his feebleness, in his anxious look, in the dark
circles about his eyes. The front of his shirt was all
rumpled; not even his cuffs were fresh. Occupied
with the course of events, the soul had forgotten the
body. Noel's well-shaved chin, on the contrary, rested1
upon an irreproachably white cravat; his collar had not
a wrinkle; his hair and his whiskers were most carefully
brushed. He bowed to Daburon, and held out his sum-
mons.
"You summoned me, monsieur," he said; "and I
am at your orders."
The judge of inquiry had met the young advocate
several times in the lobbies of the palais; and he recog-
nized him at sight. He remembered having heard this


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 213
Gerdy spoken of as a man of talent and promise, whose
reputation was fast rising. He therefore welcomed him
as a fellow-workman, and invited him to be seated.
The preliminaries common in the examinations of
all witnesses ended; the name, surname, age, place of
business, and so on registered, the judge, who had fol-
lowed his clerk with his eyes while he was writing,
turned to Noel.
"Do you know, Monsieur Gerdy," he began, "the
business on account of which you are troubled with ap-
pearing before me?"
"Yes, monsieur, the assassination of the poor old
woman at Jonchere."
"Precisely," replied Daburon.
Then, calling to mind his promise to Pere Tabaret,
he added,—
"If Justice has summoned you so promptly, it is be-
cause we have found your name often mentioned in the
papers of the Widow Lerouge."
"I am not surprised at that," replied the advocate:
"we have been much interested in this good woman,
who was my nurse; and I know that Madame Gerdy
wrote to her quite often."
"Very well; you can then give me some information
about her."
"It will be, I fear, monsieur, very incomplete. I know,
very little about this poor Mother Lerouge. I was taken
from her at a very early age; and since I have been a
man, I have thought little about her, except to send
her occasionally a little aid."
"You have never visited her?'
"Oh, yes! I have gone there many times; but I re-
mained only a few moments each time. Madame Gerdy,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
who has often seen her, and to whom she entrusted all
her affairs, could enlighten you much better than I,
however."
"I expect," said the judge, "to see Madame Gerdy
here; she must have received a summons."
"She has, monsieur; but it will be impossible for her
to appear; she is ill."
"Seriously?"
"So seriously that you will be obliged, I think, to give
up all expectations from her testimony. She is attacked
with a disease which, in the words of my friend, Dr.
Herve, never pardons. It is something like inflamma-
tion of the brain,—encephalite, if I am not mistaken.
It may be that her life will be saved; but she will never
recover her reason. If she does not die, she will be in-
sane."
Daburon appeared much troubled.
"This is very vexatious," he muttered. "And you
think, my dear sir, that it will be impossible to obtain
any thing from her?"
"It is useless even to hope for it. She has com-
pletely lost her reason. She was, when I left her, in
such a state of utter prostration that I fear she cannot
live through the day."
"And when was she attacked by this illness?"
"Yesterday evening."
"Suddenly?"
"Yes, monsieur, apparently, at least; though I my-
self think she has been suffering from it for the last
three weeks at least. But yesterday, on rising from
dinner, after having eaten but little, she took up a news-
paper; and, by a most unhappy chance, her eyes fell
exactly upon the lines which told of this crime. All at


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 215
once she uttered a loud cry, fell back in her chair, and
thence slipped to the floor, murmuring, 'Oh, the un-
happy man, the unhappy man!'"
"The unhappy woman, you mean."
"No, monsieur. I spoke advisedly. Evidently the
exclamation did not refer to my poor nurse."
Upon this reply, so important and yet made in the
most unconscious tone, Daburon raised his eyes to the
witness. The advocate lowered his head.
"And then?" asked the judge, after a moment's si-
lence, during which he had taken a few notes.
"Those words, monsieur, were the last spoken by
Madame Gerdy. Assisted by our servant, I carried her
to her bed. The doctor was called; and, since then,
she has not recovered consciousness. The doctor—"
"It is well," interrupted Daburon, "Let us leave
that for the present. Do you know, monsieur, any one
who might have been at enmity with the Widow Le-
rouge?"
"No, monsieur."
"She had no enemies? Well, now tell me, does there
exist to your knowledge any one having any interest
whatever in the death of this poor woman?"
The judge of inquiry, in putting this question, kept
his eyes fixed on Noel's not allowing him to turn or
lower his head.
The advocate started, and seemed deeply moved. He
was disconcerted; he hesitated, as if a struggle was
going on within him.
Finally, in a voice which was by no means firm, he
replied,—
"No, no one."
"I3 that really true?" demanded the judge looking


216 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
at him more sternly. "You know no one whom this
crime benefits, or whom it might benefit,—absolutely
no one?"
"I know only one thing, monsieur," replied Noel;
"and that is, that, as far as I am concerned, it has
caused me an irreparable injury."
"At last," thought Daburon, "we have got at the
letters; and I have not betrayed poor Pere Tabaret.
It would be too bad to cause the least trouble to that
zealous and invaluable man."
"An injury to you, my dear sir?" he replied; "you
will, I hope, explain yourself."
The embarrassment, of which Noel had already given
some signs, appeared now much more marked.
"I am aware, monsieur," he replied, " that I owe jus-
tice not merely the truth, but the whole truth; but there
are circumstances involved so delicate that the con-
science of a man of honor sees danger to itself. Then it
is very hard to be obliged to unveil these sad secrets,
whose revelations may sometime—"
Daburon interrupted with a gesture. Noel's sad
tone impressed him. Knowing, beforehand, what he
was about to hear, he was pained for the young advo-
cate. He turned to his clerk.
"Constant!" said he in a peculiar tone.
This tone was evidently a signal; for the long clerk
arose methodically, put his pen behind his ear, and went
out in his measured tread.
Noel appeared sensible of this delicacy. His face
expressed the strongest gratitude: his look returned
thanks.
"I am so much obliged to you, monsieur," he said
with suppressed warmth, " for your generous kindness.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 217
What I have to say is very painful; but, before you
now, it will be scarcely an effort to speak."
"Fear nothing," replied the judge; "I will only
retain in your deposition my dear sir, what seems to me
absolutely indispensable."
"I feel scarcely master of myself, monsieur," began
Noel; "so pray pardon my emotion. If any words
escape me that seem charged with bitterness, excuse
them; it will be involuntarily. Up to the past few
days, I always believed that I was the offspring of il-
licit love. My history is short. I have been honorably
ambitious. I have worked hard. He who has no name
must make one, you know. I have passed a quiet life,
retired and austere, as people must, who, starting at the
foot of the ladder, wish to reach the top. I worshipped
her whom I believed to be my mother; and I felt con-
vinced that she loved me in return. The stain of my
birth had some humiliations attached to it; but I de-
spised them. Comparing my lot with that of so many
others, I felt that I had more than common advantages.
One day, Providence placed in my hands all the letters
which my father, the Count de Commarin, had written
to Madame Gerdy at the time of their liaison. On
reading these letters, I was convinced that I was not
what I had hitherto believed myself to be,—that Mad-
ame Gerdy was not my mother!"
And. without giving Daburon time to reply, he laid
before him the facts which, twelve hours before, he had
recounted to Pere Tabaret.
It was the same story, with the same circumstances,
the same abundance of precise and conclusive details;
but the tone was entirely changed. Before the old de-
tective, the young advocate had been emphatic and


218 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
violent; but now, in the office of the judge of inquiry,
he had restrained and sobered his violent emotions.
One might imagine that he adapted his manner to his
auditor, wishing to produce the same effect on both,
and using that method which would best accomplish his
purpose.
To Pere Tabaret, an ordinary mind, he used the ex-
aggeration of anger; to Daburon, of superior intelli-
gence, he used the exaggeration of restraint.
While his mind rebelled against his unjust lot, he
nevertheless seemed to bow, armed with resignation,
before a blind fatality.
With genuine eloquence and rare happiness of ex-
pression, he drew his situation on the day following the
discovery,—his grief, his perplexity, his doubts.
To support this moral certainty, there needed some
positive testimony. Could he hope for this from the
count or from Madame Gerdy, both interested in con-
cealing the truth? No. But he had counted upon
that of his nurse.—the poor old woman who loved him,
and who, near the close of her life, would be glad to free
her conscience from this heavy load. She was dead
now; and the letters became mere waste papers in his
hands.
Then he passed to his explanation with Madame
Gerdy; and he gave the judge even fuller details than
he had given his old neighbor.
She had, he said, at first utterly denied the substitu-
tion; but he gave it to be understood that, plied with
questions, overcome by the evidence, in a moment of
despair she had confessed all, declaring at the same time
that she would retract and deny this confession, being
resolved at all hazards that her son should preserve his
position.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 219
From this scene, in the advocate's judgment, the first
attacks of the sickness, to which she had finally suc-
cumbed, might be dated.
Noel then described his interview with the Viscount
de Commarin.
In his narrative, there slipped in a few inaccuracies,
but so slight that it would be difficult to charge him
with them. Besides, there was nothing in them at aT
unfavorable to Albert.
He insisted, on the contrary, upon the excellent im-
pression which he had received of that young man.
Albert had received the revelation with a certain de-
fiance, it is true, but with a noble firmness at the same
time, and like a brave heart, was ready to bow before the
justification of right.
In fact, he drew an almost enthusiastic portrait of
this rival, who had not been spoiled by prosperity, who
had left him without a look of hatred, towards whom he
felt himself drawn, and who after all was his brother.
Daburon had listened to Noel with the most unre-
mitting attention, without a word, a movement, a frown,
betraying his feelings. When he had ended,—
"How, monsieur," observed the judge, "could you
have told me that, in your opinion, no one was inter-
ested in the death of the Widow Lerouge?"
The advocate made no reply.
"It seems to me that the Viscount de Commarin's
position has by it become almost impregnable. Madame
Gerdy is insane; the count will deny all; your letters
prove nothing. It is evident that the crime is of the
greatest service to this young man, and that it was
committed at a singularly favorable moment."
"O monsieur!" cried Noel, protesting with all his
energy, "this insinuation is dreadful."


220 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The judge watched the advocate's face narrowly.
Was he speaking frankly, or was he but playing the
generous role? Could it really be that he had never had
any suspicion of this? Noel did not flinch under the
gaze, but almost immediately continued,—
"What reason could Albert have for trembling, fear -
ing for his position? I did not utter one word of threat,
even indirectly. I did not present myself raging, like
a robbed man, who demands that every thing which had
been taken from him should be restored on the spot. I
merely presented the facts to Albert, saying, 'Here,
what do you think we ought to do? Be the judge.'"
"And he asked you for time?"
"Yes. I had just suggested his accompanying me
to the Widow Lerouge, whose testimony might dispel all
doubts; he did not seem to understand me. But he was
well acquainted with her, having often visited her with
the count, who supplied her, I have since learned, lib-
erally with money."
"Does not this generosity appear to you very sin-
gular?"
"No."
"Can you explain why the viscount did not appear
disposed to accompany you?"
"Certainly. He said that he wished, before all, to
have an explanation with his father, who was then ab-
sent, but who would return within a few days."
The truth, as all the world knows, and delights in
proclaiming, has an accent which no one can mistake.
Daburon had not the slightest doubt of his witness's
good faith. Noel continued with an ingenuous candor,
like an honest heart, which suspicion has never touched
with its bat's wing.
"The idea of treating at once with my father pleased


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
me exceedingly. I consider it so much better to wash
all one's dirty linen at home, that I have never desired
any thing but an amicable arrangement. With my
hands full of proofs, I should still recoil from a public
trial."
"Would you not have brought an action?"
"Never, monsieur, at any price. Could I," he added,
proudly, " on assuming my rightful name, begin by dis>
honoring it?"
For once, Daburon could not conceal his sincere ad-
miration.
"A most praiseworthy feeling, monsieur," he said.
"I think," replied Noel, "it is but natural. If the
worse came to the worst, I had determined to leave my
title with Albert. Certainly the name of Commarin is
an illustrious one; but I hope that, within ten years,
mine will be equally so. I would have simply de-
manded a large pecuniary compensation. I possess
nothing; and I have often been hampered in my career
by this miserable question of money. That which Mad-
ame Gerdy owed to the generosity of my father was
almost entirely spent. My education had absorbed a
great part of it; and it was long before my profes-
sion covered my expenses. Madame Gerdy and I
lived very quietly; but, unfortunately, though sim-
ple in her tastes, she lacked economy and system:
and no one can imagine how great our expenses
have been. But I have nothing to reproach myself
with, whatever* happens. From the commencement,
I have kept my anger well under control; and
even now I bear no ill-will. On learning of the death
of my nurse, though, I cast all my hopes into the sea."
"You are wrong, my dear sir," said the judge. "1
advise you to still hope. Perhaps, before the end is


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
reached, you will yet enter into possession of your
rights. Justice, I will not conceal from you, thinks she
has found the assassin of the Widow Lerouge. At
this moment, the Viscount Albert is doubtless under
arrest."
"What!" exclaimed Noel with a sort of stupor;
"can it be true? I was, then, not mistaken, monsieur,
in the meaning of your words. I dreaded to under-
stand them."
"You have not mistaken me, monsieur," said Dabu-
ron. "I thank you for your sincere, straightforward
explanations; they have eased my task materially. To-
morrow,—for to-day my time is all taken up,—we will
regularly take your deposition, at this same hour, if
convenient to you. There is nothing more, I believe,
except to ask you for the letters in your possession, and
which are indispensable to me."
"Within an hour, monsieur, you shall have them,"
replied Noel.
And he retired, after having warmly expressed his
gratitude to the judge of inquiry.
Less preoccupied, the advocate perceived at the end
of the gallery Pere Tabaret, who had just arrived,
eager and happy, like a bearer of good news as he was.
His carriage had scarcely stopped before the gate of
the palais de justice before he was in the court, and
rushing towards the porch. To see him jumping more
nimbly than a fifth rate lawyer's clerk up the steep
flight of stairs leading to the judge's office, you would
never believe that he had been years on the shady side
of fifty. Even he doubted the fact. He did not re-
member having passed the dark line: he had never felt
so fresh, so agile, in such spirits; he had springs of
steel in his limbs.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 223
He crossed the gallery in two jumps, and burst like
a cannon shot into the judge's apartment, hustling
against the methodical clerk in the rudest of ways,
without even asking his pardon.
"Caught!" he cried, while yet on the threshold,
"caught, 1 nipped, squeezed, strung, trapped, locked!
We have got our man."
Pere Tabaret, more "Tirauclair" than ever, ges-
ticulated with such comical vehemence and such re-
markable contortions that even the long clerk smiled;
for which, however, he took himself severely to task,
on going to bed that night.
But Daburon, still under the influence of Noel's de-
position, was shocked at this apparently unseasonable
joy; although he felt the safer for it. He looked se-
verely at Pere Tabaret, saying,—
"Hush, monsieur; be decent; compose yourself."
At any other time, the old fellow would have been
frightened at having deserved such a reprimand. Now
it made no impression on him.
"I can't be quiet," he replied; "and I am proud of
it. Never has any thing like it been seen. All that I
predicted has been found. Broken foil, pearl gray
gloves slightly frayed, cigar-holder; nothing is want-
ing. You shall have them, monsieur, and many more
like them. I have a little system of my own, which
appears by no means a bad one. Just see the triumph
of my method of induction, which Gevrol ridiculed so.
I'd give a hundred francs if he were only here now.
But no: my Gevrol wants to nab the man with the
earrings; he is capable of doing just that. He is a fine
fellow, this Gevrol, a famous fellow! How much do
you give him a year for his skill?"
"Come, my dear Tabaret," said the judge, as soon


224 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
as he could get a word in, " be serious, if you can, and
let us proceed regularly."
"Pshaw!" replied the old fellow, "what good will
it do? It is a clear case now. When they bring our
man before you, show him simply the particles taken
from the fingers of the victim side by side with his torn
gloves; and you will overwhelm him. I wager that
he will confess all, hie et nunc,—yes, I wager my head
against his: although that's pretty risky; for he will
get off yet! These milksops on the jury are just capa-
ble of according him extenuating circumstances. I'd
give him extenuating circumstances. Ah! these snails
destroy justice! Why, if all the world were of my
mind, the punishment of these rascals wouldn't take
such a time! The moment they were captured, that
moment they should be strung up. That's my opin-
ion."
Daburon resigned himself to this shower of words.
When the old fellow's excitement had cooled down a
little, he simply began questioning him. He was even
then in great trouble to obtain the exact details of the
arrest,—details which might confirm the official re-
port of the commissary of police.
The judge appeared much surprised at hearing that
Albert, at sight of the warrant, had exclaimed, "I am
lost!"
"That," muttered he, "is a terrible proof against
him."
"Certainly," replied Pere Tabaret. "In his ordi-
nary state, he would never have allowed these words to
escape him; which in fact destroy him. It was be-
cause we arrested him when he was scarcely awake.
He hadn't been in bed, but was lying in a troubled
sleep, upon a sofa, when we arrived. I took good care


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 225
to send a frightened servant in in advance, and then to
follow closely upon him myself; because he was thus
demoralized. All my calculations were made. But,
never fear, he will find a plausible excuse for this fatal
exclamation. By the way, I should add that we found
on the floor, near by, last evening's ' Gazette de France:
all rumpled, which contained the report of the assassina-
tion. This is the first time that a piece of news in the
papers ever helped to nab a criminal."
"Yes," murmured the judge, deep in thought,—
"yes, you are a valuable man, Tabaret." Then, louder,
he added, "I am thoroughly convinced; for Noel
Gerdy has just this moment left me."
"You have seen Noel," cried the old fellow.
On the instant all his proud self-satisfaction disap-
peared. A cloud of anxiety, like a veil, spread over his
face, and eclipsed his joy.
"Noe] here," he repeated; then timidly added, "and
does he know?"
"Nothing," replied Daburon. "I had no need of
bringing you in. Besides, had I not promised absolute
secrecy?"
"Ah, that's all right," cried Pere Tabaret. "And
what do you think of Noel?"
"His is, I am sure, a noble, worthy heart," said the
magistrate,—" a nature both strong and tender. The
sentiments which I heard him express here, and the
genuineness of which it is impossible to doubt, mani-
fested an elevation of soul, unhappily, very rare. Sel'
dom in my life have I met with a man who so won my
sympathy from the first. I can well understand one's
pride in being among his friends."
"Just what I said; he has precisely the same effect
upon every one. I love him as though he were'my


226 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
own child; and, whatever happens, he is to inherit my
entire fortune; yes, I intend leaving him every thing.
My will is made, and in the hands of Baron, my notary.
There is a legacy, too, for Madame Gerdy; but I am
going to scratch that out at once."
"Madame Gerdy, Tabaret, will soon be beyond all
need of worldly goods."
"How, what do you mean? Has the count—"
"She is dying, and will hardly last through the day;
Monsieur Gerdy told me so himself."
"Ah! heavens!" cried the old fellow, "what do
you tell me? dying? Noel will go distracted; but
no: since she is not his mother, how can it affect him?
Dying? I was so fond of her before this discovery. Poor
humanity! It seems as though all the accomplices in
that great sin are passing away at the same time; for I
forgot to tell you, that, just as I was leaving the Hotel
de Commarin, I heard a servant telling another that the
count at the news of his son's arrest had fallen in a fit
of apoplexy."
"That will be the worst of misfortunes for young
Gerdy."
"For Noel?"
"I had counted upon M. de Commarin's testimony
to recover for him all that he so well deserves. The
count dead, the Widow Lerouge dead, Madame Gerdy
dying, or in any event insane, who then can tell us
whether the plan detailed in these letters was ever car-
ried into execution?"
"True," murmured Pere Tabaret; "it is true! And
I did not see it. What fatality! For I am not de-
ceived; I am certain that—"
He did not finish. Daburon's office door opened; and
the Count de Commarin himself appeared in the flesh,


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 227
as stately as one of those old portraits which you might
imagine frozen in their gilded frames.
The old gentleman signed with his hand; and the
two servants who had helped him up as far as the
gallery, sustaining him on either side, retired.
CHAPTER XI.
It was the Count de Commarin, or rather his
shadow. His head, usually carried so high, fell upon
his breast; his figure was bent; his eyes had no longer
their accustomed fire; his fair hands trembled. The
extreme disorder of his dress rendered more striking
still the change which had come over him. In one
night, he had grown twenty years older.
These robust old men resemble great trees whose
inner wood has crumbled away, and whose only life is
in the bark without.
They are apparently unshaken, they seem to set
time at defiance; yet one blast of wind casts them to
the earth. This man, yesterday so proud of never hav-
ing bent to a storm, was now completely prostrated.
The pride of his name had constituted his entire
strength; that humbled, he seemed utterly over-
whelmed. In him every thing gave way at once; all
his supports failed him at the same time. His cold,
lifeless gaze revealed the dull stupor of his thoughts.
He presented such an image of utter despair that the
judge of inquiry shuddered at the sight. Tabaret
looked frightened, and even the clerk seemed moved.
"Constant," said Monsieur Daburon quickly, "go
with Monsieur Tabaret, and see if there's any news at
the prefecture."


228 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
The clerk left the room, followed by the old man,
who went away regretfully. The count had not noticed
their presence; he paid no attention to their departure.
Daburon offered him a seat, which he accepted with
a sad smile. "I feel so weak," said he, "you must
excuse my sitting."
• • Apologies to an inferior magistrate! What an ad-
vance in civilization, when the nobility consider them-
selves subject to the law, and bow to its decrees! It
was far different when the Duchess of Bouillon mocked
at parliament, when the haughty nobles that infested
the reign of Louis XIV. treated with the greatest in-
dignity the counsellor of the chambre d'ardente. All
the world respects justice nowadays; and an innocent
man need fear but little, even when defended only by a
simple, conscientious judge of inquiry.
"You are perhaps too unwell, count," said the judge,
"to give me the explanations I had hoped for."
"I am better, thank you," replied Monsieur de Com-
marin, "than I have been since the terrible blow has
fallen upon me. When I heard of the crime of which
my son is accused, and of his arrest, I was stunned. I
believed myself strong; I find myself a poor, weak old
man. My servants thought me dead. Would that I
were. The strength of my constitution, my physician
tells me, was all that saved me; but I know that heaven
has kept me alive, that I may drink to the bitter dregs
this cup of humiliation."
He stopped for a moment, choked by a flow of blood
that rose to his mouth.
The judge of inquiry remained near the table, not
daring to move.
After a few moments' rest, the count found relief,
and proceeded.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Unhappy man that I am! did I not expect it?
Every thing comes to light sooner or later. I am pun-
ished for my great sin,—pride. I thought myself out
of reach of the thunderbolt; and I have been the means
of drawing down the storm upon my house. Albert
an assassin! A Viscount de Commarin arraigned be-
fore a court of assize! Ah, monsieur, punish me, too;
for I alone and long ago, laid the foundation of this
crime. A race bearing for fifteen centuries a spotless
name closes with me in infamy."
Daburon considered the conduct of the Count de
Commarin unpardonable, and had determined not to
spare him.
He had expected to meet a proud, haughty noble,
almost unmanageable; and he had resolved to humble
his arrogance.
Perhaps the harsh treatment he had received of old
from the Marquise d'Arlanges had given him, uncon-
sciously, a slight grudge against aristocracy.
He had vaguely thought of certain rather severe re-
marks, which were to overcome the old gentleman, and
bring him to his senses.
But. when he found in his presence a real penitent,
his indignation changed to profound pity; and he asked
himself how he could assuage his grief.
"Write, monsieur," continued the count, with an ex-
ultation of which he would not have been capable ten
minutes before,—" write my avowal withholding noth-
ing. I have no longer need of mercy nor of tenderness.
What have I to fear now? Is not my disgrace public?
Must not I, Count Rheteau de Commarin, appear before
the tribunal, to proclaim the infamy of our house? Ah!
all is lost now, even honor itself. Write, monsieur; my
wish is, that all the world shall know that I am the most


230 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
to blame. But they shall also know that already the
punishment has been terrible, and that there is no new
need of this last and mortal trial."
The count interrupted himself, to concentrate and ar-
range his memory.
He continued, then, with a firmer voice, adapting his
tone to what he had to say,—
"When I was of Albert's age, monsieur, my parents
made me marry, in spite of my protestations, the noblest
and purest of young girls. I made her the most un-
happy of women. I could not love her. I cherished a
most passionate love for a mistress, who had trusted
herself to me, and whom I had loved for many years.
I found her rich in beauty, purity, and soul. Her name
was Valerie. My heart is dead and cold in me, mon-
sieur; but, ah! when I pronounce that name, it calls me
again to life. In spite of my marriage, I could not in-
duce myself to part from her; nor did she wish it. The
idea of a disgraceful separation was revolting to her;
for she loved me then. Our relations continued.
"My wife and my mistress became mothers at nearly
the same time. This coincidence suggested to me the
sad idea of sacrificing my legitimate son to his less for-
tunate brother. I communicated this project to Valerie.
To my surprise, she refused it with horror. Already the
maternal instinct had awakened in her; she would not
be separated from her child. I have preserved, as a
memento of my folly, the letters which she wrote to me
at this time. I have re-read them only this night. Ah!
how could I have refused both her arguments and her
prayers? It was because I was mad. She had the same
presentiment of evil which weighs me down to-day. But
I came to Paris. I had absolute control over her. I
threatened to leave her, never to see her again. She


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 231
yielded; and my valet and Claudine Lerouge were
charged with this wicked substitution. It is therefore,
the son of my mistress who wears the title of Viscount
de Commarin, and who was arrested but an hour since."
Daburon had not hoped for a declaration so clear, and
above all so prompt. He secretly rejoiced for the young
advocate, whose sentiments had so won upon him.
"So, count," said he, "you acknowledge that Noel
Gerdy was the issue of your legitimate marriage, and
that he alone is entitled to bear your name?"
"Yes, monsieur. Alas! I was then more delighted at
the success of my project than I should have been over
the most brilliant victory. I was so intoxicated with the
joy of having my Valerie's child there, near me, that I
forgot every thing. I had transferred to him a part of
my love for his mother; or, rather, I loved him still bet-
ter, if that be possible. The thought that he would bear
my name, that he would inherit all my wealth, to the
detriment of the other, transported me with delight. The
other, I hated; I could not even look upon him. I do
not recollect having embraced him twice even.
"It was on this point alone that Valerie, who was
very good, reproached me severely.
"One thing alone interfered with my happiness. The
Countess de Commarin adored him whom she believed
to be her son, and always wished to have him on her
knees. I cannot express what I suffered at seeing my
wife cover with kisses and caresses the child of my
mistress.
"But I kept him from her as much as I could; and
she, poor girl! not understanding what was passing
within me, imagined that I was doing every thing to
keep her son from loving her. She died, monsieur, with
this idea, which poisoned her last days. She died of sor-


232 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
row; but saintlike, without a complaint, without a mur-
mur, pardon upon her lips and in her heart."
Much pressed for time, Daburon, however, did not
dare to interrupt the count, and ask him briefly for the
Immediate facts of the case. He knew that fever alone
gave him this energy, to which a moment after might
succeed the most complete prostration. He feared, if
he stopped him for an instant, that he would not have
strength enough to begin again.
"I had not," continued the count, "a tear for her.
What had she been in my life? A cause of sorrow and
remorse. But the justice of God, in advance of man's,
took a terrible revenge. One day, I was warned that
Valerie had deceived me, and had broken with me for
a long time. I could not believe it at first; it seemed
to me impossible, absurd. I would have sooner doubted
myself than her. I had taken her from a garret, where
she had worked sixteen hours to earn thirty sous: she
owed every thing to me. Every thing had gone so
smoothly in the past that her falseness was in some way
repugnant to my reason. I could not induce myself to
feel jealous. However, I inquired into the matter; I
watched her; I even descended to setting a spy upon
her. I had been told the truth. This unhappy girl had
a lover, and had had him for more than ten years. He
was a cavalry officer. He came to her house with every
precaution. Usually he departed about midnight: but
sometimes he came to pass the night, and in that case
left in the early morning. Being stationed near Paris,
he obtained leaves to visit it; and, during these leaves,
he remained shut up in her house without going out at
all. One evening, my spies brought me word that he
was there. I hastened to the house. My presence did
not embarrass her. She received me as usual, throwing


234 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Albert occurred to me. Was I really his father? Can
you understand what my punishment was, when I said
to myself, 'I have perhaps sacrificed my own child to
that of an utter stranger.' This thought made me hate
the youth. To my great love, there succeeded an un-
conquerable repulsion. How often, in those times, I
struggled against an insane desire to murder hiir!
Since then, I have learned to subdue my aversion; but
I have never completely mastered it. Albert, monsieur,
has been the best of sons. Nevertheless, there has al-
ways been an icy barrier between us, which he could
never explain. Often I have been upon the point of pre-
senting myself before the tribunals, of avowing all, of
reclaiming my legitimate heir; but regard for my rank y
has prevented me. I recoiled before the scandal. I
feared the ridicule or disgrace that would attach itself
to my name; and yet I have not been able to save it from
infamy."
The voice of the old gentleman was silent, after these
words. With a desolate movement, he buried his face
in both hands. Two great tears, almost immediately
dry, rolled silently down his wrinkled cheeks.
In the mean time, the door of the study opened half
way, and the head of the long clerk appeared.
Daburon signed to him to enter, and then addressing
Monsieur de Commarin, said, in a voice that compassion
made the more gentle,—
"Monsieur, in the eyes of heaven, as in the eyes of so-
ciety, you have committed a great sin; and the results,
you see, are the most disastrous. This sin it is your
duty to repair as much as lies in your power."
"Such is my intention, monsieur, and, shall I say,
my dearest wish."
"You doubtless understand me," continued Daburon.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Yes, monsieur," replied the old man,—" yes, I un-
derstand you."
"It will doubtless be a consolation for you," added the
judge, "to learn that Noel Gerdy is worthy in all re-
spects of the high position that you are going to restore
to him. You will certainly acknowledge that his char-
acter is of the greater worth, from his having raised
himself by his own exertions. He is a man of great tal-
ent, better and worthier than any one I know. You
will have a son worthy of his ancestors. And no one
of your family will regret, monsieur, that the Viscount
Albert is not a Commarin."
"No," replied the count quickly, " a Commarin would
have died by this time; and blood washes all away."
This remark of the old gentleman set the judge of in-
quiry to think profoundly.
"Are you then sure," said he, "of the viscount's
guilt?"
M. de Commarin gave the judge a look of surprise.
"I only arrived in Paris yesterday evening," he re-
plied; "and I am entirely ignorant of all that has oc-
curred. I only know that they would not proceed on
trifles against a man of Albert's rank. If you have
arrested him, it is quite evident that you have some-
thing more than suspicion against him,—that you pos-
sess positive proofs."
Daburon bit his lips, and, for a moment, could not con-
ceal a feeling of displeasure. He had neglected his
usual prudence, had moved too quickly. He had be-
lieved the count's mind entirely overthrown; and now he
had aroused his defiance. All the skill in the world could
not repair such an unfortunate mistake.
As the result of an examination, from which much
had been expected, all his plans might be overturned.


236 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
A witness on his guard is a witness no longer to be
depended upon; he trembles for fear of compromising
himself, measures the weight of the questions, and hes-
itates as to his answers.
On the other hand, justice, in the form of a magis-
trate, is disposed to doubt every thing, to imagine every
thing, and to suspect all the world.
How far was the count a stranger to the crime at
Jonchere? Evidently, several days before it, although
doubting Albert's paternity, he had made great efforts
to retain his son in his place. His story showed that he
thought his honor concerned in his retention.
Was he not a man to suppress, by every means, an
inconvenient witness? Thus reasoned Monsieur Da-
buron.
And yet he could not clearly see how the Count de
Comarin's interests and his restless uncertainty were
concerned in the matter. His whole life opposed it.
"Monsieur," he began again more sternly, "when
were you informed of the discovery of your secret?"
"Last evening, by Albert himself. He spoke to me of
this sad story, and of a deed which I now seek in vain
to explain, unless—"
The count stopped short, as if his reason had been
struck by the improbability of the supposition which he
had formed.
"Unless ?—" inquired the magistrate quickly.
"Monsieur," said the count, without replying di-
rectly, " Albert will be a hero, if he be not the criminal."
"Ah!" said the magistrate quickly, " have you, then,
reason to think him innocent?"
Daburon's spite was so plainly visible in the tone of
his words that Monsieur de Commarin could and ought
to have seen the appearance of a wicked intention. He


238 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
ing neither his usual calmness nor foresight. He felt
that he might commit the most serious blunder. Why
had he undertaken this inquiry? Could he keep himself
a free arbiter? Did he think his will would be impar-
tial?
Gladly would he have turned over to another the
further examination of the count; but could he? His
conscience told him that this would be another blunder.
He renewed, then, the painful examination.
"Monsieur," said he, "the sentiments expressed by
the viscount are very fine, without doubt; but did he
not speak to you of the Widow Lerouge?"
"Yes," replied the count, who appeared suddenly to
brighten, as by the remembrance of some unnoticed cir-
cumstances,—" yes, certainly."
"He might have shown you that the testimony of this
woman would render a struggle with M. Gerdy impos-
sible."
"Precisely, monsieur; and, aside from the question
of duty, it was upon that that he based his refusal to
follow my wishes."
"It will be necessary, count, for you to repeat to me
very exactly all that passed between the viscount and
yourself. Appeal, then, I beseech you, to your memory,
and strive to repeat his words as nearly as possible."
Monsieur de Commarin obeyed without much diffi-
culty. For a moment, a salutary reaction had worked
upon him. His blood, excited by the persistence of the
examination, renewed its accustomed course. His brain
redeemed itself.
The scene of last evening was admirably presented
to his memory, even to the most minute details. The
sound of Albert's words were again in his ears; he saw
again his expressive gestures.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 239
-
As his story advanced, brilliant with clearness and
precision, Daburon's conviction was confirmed.
The judge turned against Albert precisely what had
the day before won the count's admiration.
"What wonderful acting!" thought he. "Tabaret
is decidedly possessed of second sight. To his incon-
ceivable boldness, this young man joins an infernal clev-
erness. The genius of crime itself inspires him. It is
a miracle that we have been able to unmask him. How
well every thing was foreseen and arranged! How
marvellously this scene with his father was brought
about, in order to bring doubt in case of discovery!
There is not a sentence which lacks a purpose, which
does not tend to ward off suspicion. What refinement
of execution! What over-anxious care for details!
Nothing failed him, not even the great devotion of his
fiancee. Had he really informed Claire? Probably I
might be sure of this; but I should have to return to her,
to again speak to her. Poor child! to love such a man!
But he will now appear before her in his true colors.
This discussion, too, with the count was his plank of
safety. It committed him to nothing, and gained time.
He would of course raise objections, since they would
only end by binding himself the more nrmly in his fa-
ther's heart. He could thus make a merit of his compli-
ance, and would ask a reward for his helplessness. And,
when Noel should return to the charge, he would find
against him the count, who would boldly deny every
thing, politely refuse him; and he would, of course, be
driven out as an impostor and forger."
It was a strange coincidence, but yet easily explained,
that M. de Commarin, while telling his story, arrived
precisely at the same ideas with the judge, at conclu-
sions almost identical.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
In fact, why this persistence on the subject of Clau-
dine? He remembered plainly, that, in his anger, he
had said to his son. " Mankind is not in the habit of do-
ing such fine actions for its own satisfaction." This
great disinterestedness now explained itself.
"I thank you, monsieur," said Daburon: "I will
say nothing positive; but Justice has weighty reasons
to believe that, in the scene which you have just re-
ported to me, the Viscount Albert played a part pre-
viously arranged."
"And well arranged," murmured the count; " for he
deceived me, me!"
He was interrupted by the entrance of Noel, who car-
ried a shagreen portfolio, ornamented with black fig-
ures, under his arm.
The advocate bowed to the old gentleman, who in his
turn arose and retired politely to the end of the room.
"Monsieur," said Noel, in an undertone to the judge,
"you will find all the letters in this portfolio. I must
ask permission to leave you at once, as Madame Gerdy's
condition grows hourly more alarming."
Noel had raised his voice a little, in pronouncing
these last words; and the count heard them. He started,
and needed great effort to restrain the question which
leaped from his heart into his mouth.
"You must give me a moment, my dear fellow," said
the judge.
Daburon then quitted his chair, and, taking the ad-
vocate by the hand, led him to the count.
"Monsieur de Commarin," said he, " I have the honor
of presenting to you M. Noel Gerdy."
M. de Commarin was probably expecting some scene
of this kind; for not a muscle of his face moved: he re-
mained perfectly calm. Noel, on his side, was like a


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 241
man who had received a blow on the head; he staggered,
and was obliged to seek support from the back of a
chair.
Then these two, father and son, stood face to face,
apparently deep in thought, in reality examining one an-
other with dark distrust, each striving to gather some-
thing of the other's thought.
Daburon had hoped much from this coup de theatre,
which he had planned since the count's arrival. He had
expected to bring about, by this abrupt presentation, an
intensely pathetic scene, which would not give his cli-
ents time for reflection. The count would open his
arms: Noel would throw himself into them; and this
reconciliation would only await the sanction of the tri-
bunals, to be complete.
The coldness of one, the embarrassment of the other,
disconcerted his plans. He believed a more pressing
intervention necessary.
"Count," said he reproachfully, "remember that
Monsieur Gerdy is your legitimate son."
M. de Commarin made no reply; to judge from his
lack of emotion, he had not heard.
Then Noel, summoning all his courage, ventured to
speak first,—
"Monsieur," he stammered, " I only wish—"
"You may call me your father," interrupted the old
man, in a tone which certainly had nothing of emotion
or tenderness in it. Then addressing the judge,—
"Can I be of any further use?" he asked.
"Only to hear your deposition read," replied Da-
buron, "and to sign it, if you find it taken down cor-
rectly. You may proceed, Constant," he added.
The long clerk made a half turn in his chair, and
commenced. He had a peculiar way of sputtering over


242 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
what he had scrawled. He read very quickly, all at
one dash, without paying attention to periods, commas,
questions, or replies, as long as his breath lasted. When
he could go on no longer, he took a breath, and went
on as before. Unconsciously, he reminded you of those
divers, who now and then raise their heads above water,
obtain a supply of air, and disappear again. Noel was
the only one to listen attentively to the reading, which
was to unpractised ears unintelligible. It apprised him
of things which it was important for him to know. At
last Constant pronounced the formula, en foi de quoi,
etc., which end all official reports in France.
He handed the pen to the count, who signed without
hesitation. The old gentleman then turned towards
Noel.
"I am not very strong," he said; "you must, there-
fore, my son," (this word was emphasized) "help your
father to his carriage."
The young advocate advanced eagerly. His face
brightened, while he passed the count's arm through
his own.
When they were gone, Daburon could not resist an
impulse of curiosity. He hastened to the door, which
he opened; and, keeping his body in the background,
that he might not himself be seen, he extended his head,
examining the gallery with a glance.
The count and Noel had not yet reached the end.
They were going slowly. The count seemed to drag
heavily and painfully along; the advocate took short
steps, bending lightly on the side towards the count;
and all his movements were marked with the greatest
solicitude. The judge retained his position until they
were lost to view by a turn in the gallery. Then he went
back to his place, heaving a deep sigh.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"At least," said he, " I have helped to make one happy
person. The day will not be utterly wasted."
But he had no time to give way to such thoughts, the
hours flew by so quickly. He had to examine Albert as
soon as possible; and he had still to receive the deposi-
tion of many of the servants of the Count de Com-
marin's house, and to receive the report of the com-
missary of police charged with the arrest.
The above-named domestics, who had waited their
turn a long while, were without delay brought in, one
after the other.
They had but little information to give; but there
were as many new charges as there were witnesses. It
was easy to see that all believed their master guilty.
Albert's conduct since the beginning of this fatal
week, his least words, his most insignificant movements,
were reported, commented upon, and explained.
The man who lives in the midst of thirty servants is
like an insect in a glass box under the magnifying glass
of a naturalist. No one of his acts escape attention;
scarcely can he have a secret; and, if they cannot divine
what it is, they at least know he has one. From morn-
ing until night, he is the point of observation for thirty
pairs of eyes, interested in studying the slightest change
in his face.
The judge had, therefore, an abundance of frivolous
details; which at the time they occurred meant noth-
ing, but the most trifling of which seemed all at once to
the count to become a matter of life and death.
By combining these depositions, reconciling them,
and putting them in order, Daburon could follow his
prisoner hour by hour to his going out on Sunday morn-
ing.
On that Sunday morning, the viscount had given or-


244 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
ders that all visitors should be informed that he had
gone into the country. From that moment, the whole
household perceived that something had gone wrong,
and annoyed him.
He did not leave his study on that day, but had had
his dinner brought to him. He ate very little,—only
some soup, and a bit of fish with white wines. While
eating, he had said to Monsieur Contois, the butler,
"Remind the cook to spice this sauce a little more, in
future," and then added in a low tone, "Ah? to what
purpose?" In the evening he dismissed the servants
from all duties, saying, "Go, and amuse yourselves."
He expressly warned them not to enter his room until
he rang.
On Monday, he did not rise until noon, although
usually an early riser. He complained of a violent head-
ache, and of weakness. He took, however, a cup of tea.
He ordered out his coupe but almost immediately coun-
termanded the order. His valet de chambre, Lubin,
heard him say, " It is too late to hesitate; " and a few
moments after, " I must finish it." Shortly afterwards,
he began writing.
Lubin had been instructed to carry a letter to Made-
moiselle Claire d'Arlanges, with orders to deliver it to
herself or to Mademoiselle Smith, the governess only.
A second letter, with two checks of a thousand francs,
were intrusted to Joseph, to be carried to the club. Jo-
seph, no longer remembered the person to whom it
was addressed: but it was not a titled name.
That evening, Albert took only a little soup, and re-
mained shut up in his room. He was up early on Tues-
day. He walked up and down the house, like a soul in
pain, or like one who awaited with impatience something
which had not arrived. Upon his going into the gar-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 245
den, the gardener asked his advice concerning a lawn.
He replied, "You may consult the count upon his re-
turn."
He breakfasted precisely as on the day before. About
one o'clock, he went down to the stables, and, with an
air of sadness, he caressed his favorite mare, Norma.
Stroking her neck, he said, "Poor creature! poor old
girl!"
At three o'clock, a messenger arrived with a letter.
The viscount took it, and opened it hastily. He was
then opposite the flower garden. Two footmen heard
him distinctly say, " She cannot resist." He entered the
house, and burned the letter in the large fire-place in
the entry.
As he was sitting down to dinner, at six o'clock, two
of his friends, Monsieur de Courtivois and the Marquis
of Chouze, insisted upon seeing him, in spite of all or-
ders. They would not be refused. These gentlemen
were anxious to carry him away to a party of pleasure;
but he refused, saying that he had a very important ap-
pointment.
At dinner, he ate a little more than on the former
days. He asked the butler also for a bottle of Chateau
Lafitte, which he drank entirely. While taking his cof-
fee, he smoked a cigar in the dining-room, contrary to
the rules of the house. At half-past seven, according
to Joseph and the two footmen, or at eight according to
the porter and Lubin, the viscount went out on foot, tak-
ing with him an umbrella. He returned at two o'clock
in the morning, and dismissed at once his valet de cham-
bre, whose duty it was to remain up for him.
Wednesday, on entering the viscount's room, the
valet de chambre was struck with the condition in which
he found his master's clothing. It was wet, and stained


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 247
to his mind, it was a confession. He then delivered all
the articles seized in the Viscount de Commarin's room.
The judge of inquiry examined carefully all these
articles, and compared them closely with the scraps of
evidence gathered at Jonchere. He appeared now,
more than ever, satisfied with his course.
He personally placed all the material proofs upon the
table, and, to hide them, threw over them three or four
of those large sheets of paper, which are used by shirt-
makers for covers.
The day was far advanced; and Daburon had no
more than sufficient time to examine the prisoner before
night. Why should he hesitate now? He had in his
hands more proofs than would suffice to summon ten
men before the court of assize, and send them from
thence to Roquette. He was fighting with arms so im-
measurably superior, that, unless through some error
of his own, Albert would scarcely dream of defending
himself; and yet, at this moment of so much solemnity
to himself, he seemed to falter. Was his will enfeebled?
Would he abandon his resolution?
He now, for the first time, remembered that he had
tasted nothing since morning; and he sent hastily for a
bottle of wine, and some biscuits. It was not strength,
however, that the judge needed; it was courage. All
the time that he was drinking, his thoughts would keep
repeating this strange sentence, " I am going to appear
before the Viscount de Commarin." At any other mo-
ment, he would have laughed at this flight of his
thoughts; but, at this moment, he seemed to see the
will of Providence.
"So be it," said he; "this is my punishment."
And immediately he gave the necessary orders for the
Viscount Albert to be brought before him.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
man, in a white head-dress, stood at her garden gate:
she spoke with a suppliant air. The count listened to
her with a stern glance; then, taking some money from
his pocket-book, he gave it to her.
On reaching the jail, they got out of the carriage as
I they had entered it.
\ During the formalities of the jail-book, in the dark,
offensive record office, replying mechanically to every
thing, he gave himself up with delight to recollections
of Claire. He went back to the time of their first love,
when he doubted whether he should ever have the hap-
piness of being loved by her in return, and to Madame
Goello's house, where they had first exchanged their
vows.
This old lady had a certain celebrated lover's retreat,
upon the left bank of the Seine, of the most peculiar de-
scription. Upon all the furniture, and even upon the
mantel, were placed a dozen or fifteen stuffed dogs, of
various kinds, which together or successively had helped
to cheer the old maid's lonely hours. She loved to re-
late the stories of these pets, whose affections had never
failed her. They were, too, such grotesque, horrible
things. One especially, outrageously stuffed, seemed
ready to burst. How many times he had laughed at it
with Claire until the tears came!
They began searching him then. This crowning hu-
miliation, when rough hands passed all over his body,
brought him somewhat to himself, and roused his an-
ger. But it was soon finished; and they took him
through the dark corridors, whose pavements were filthy
and slippery. They opened a door, and pushed him
into a sort of little cell. He heard behind him the sound
of clashing bolts, and creaking locks.
He was a prisoner, and, in accordance with special


250 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
orders, in solitary confinement. Immediately he felt a
marked sensation of comfort. He was alone.
No more stifled whispers, harsh voices, dreadful ques-
tions, filled his ears. A profound silence, giving the
idea of nothingness, formed about him. It seemed to
him that he had never before escaped from society; and
he rejoiced at it. He would have felt relieved, had this
even been a tomb. His body, as well as his mind, was
weighed down with weariness. He was going to sit
down, when he perceived a mean couch, at the right,
in front of the grated window, which let in the little
light there was. This bed gave him as much pleasure as
a plank would a drowning man. He threw himself upon
it, and stretched himself with delight; but he felt chilled.
He found a coarse woolen coverlid, and, wrapping it
about him, was soon sound asleep.
In the corridor, two agents of the safety police, one
still young, the other already gray, applied alternately
their eyes and ears to the peep-hole in the door.
"What a fellow he is!" murmured the younger of-
ficer. "If a man has no more nerve than that, he ought
to be pretty honest. He will be wild the morning of his
execution, eh, Balan?"
"That depends,"—replied the other. "We must wait
and see. Lecoq told me that he was a terrible rascal."
"Ah! see how the fellow arranges his bed, and lies
down. Can he be going to sleep? That's good! It's
the first time I ever saw such a thing."
"It's because, comrade, that you have only had deal-
ings with the smaller rogues. All great rascals—and I
have had to do with more than one—are of this sort. At
the moment of arrest, good-night every one; their heart
fails them: but they recover themselves next day."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Upon my word, if he hasn't gone to sleep! What
a joke!"
"I tell you, my friend," added the old man, point-
edly, "that nothing is more natural. I am sure that,
since the blow was struck, this young fellow has hardly
lived: his body has been all on fire. Now he knows
that his secret is out; and that quiets him."
"Ha, ha! you are joking: you say that that quiets
him?"
"Certainly. There is no greater punishment, remem-
ber, than anxiety; any thing is preferable. If you have
only got ten thousand livrcs income, I will show you a
way to prove this. Go to Hamburg and risk your entire
fortune on one chance at rouge et noir. Tell me, after-
wards, what your feelings were while the ball was roll-
ing. It is, observe, as though they were tearing your
brain with pincers, as if they were pouring molten lead
into your bones, instead of marrow. This dread of de-
tection is so strong, that, when every thing is lost, they
are content; they feel relieved; they breathe again; they
say to themselves, ' Ah, it is finished at last.' They are
ruined, demolished, overthrown; but it is ended."
"Truly, Balan, one would think that you yourself
had had just such an experience."
"Alas!" sighed the officer, " it is to my love for the
queen of spades, my unhappy love, that you owe the
honor of looking through this peep-hole in my company.
But this fellow has two hours for his nap; do not lose
sight of him: I am going to smoke a cigarette in the
court."
Albert slept four hours. On awaking, his head
seemed clearer than it had been any time since his in-
terview with Noel. It was a terrible moment for him,


252 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
when, for the first time, he looked his situation calmly
in the face.
"By this time," said he, "he has taken measures to
prevent his being ousted."
He longed to see some one,—to speak, to have
questions asked, to explain. He felt a desire to cry
out.
"But what good would it do," he said to himself,
"even if they came?"
He looked for his watch, to see what time it was, and
found that they had taken it away. This moved him
deeply: they were treating him like the most abandoned
of villains. He felt in his pockets: they had all been
carefully emptied. He thought now of his appearance;
and, throwing himself upon the couch, he repaired as
much as possible the disorder of his toilet. He put his
clothes in order, and dusted them; he straightened his
collar, and re-tied his cravat. Turning, then, a little
water on his handkerchief, he passed it over his face,
rubbing his eyes, the lids of which were smarting. Then
he endeavored to smooth his beard and hair. He had no
idea that four lynx eyes were fixed upon him all the
time.
"Good!" murmured the young officer: " see how our
cock raises his crest and smooths his feathers!"
"I tell you," put in Balan, " he is simply benumbed.
Hush! he is speaking, I believe."
But they neither surprised one of those disordered
gestures nor one of those incoherent speeches, which
almost always escape from the feeble when excited by
fears, or from the independent who believe their secrets
secure. One word alone, "honor," reached the ears of
the two spies.
"These rascals of rank," grumbled Balan, "always


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
have this word in their mouths. That which they most
fear is the opinion of some dozen friends, and several
thousand strangers, who read the 'Journal des Tribu-
naux.' They care nothing about their own heads."
When the gendarmes came to conduct Albert to the
examination, they found him seated on the side of his
bed, his feet pressed against the iron bar, his elbows
on his knees, and his head buried in his hands. He rose,
as they entered, and took a few steps towards them;
but his throat was so dry that he was scarcely able to
speak. He asked for a few moments' rest; and, turn-
ing towards the little table, he filled and drank two large
glasses of water in succession.
"I am ready," he then said.
And, with a firm step, he followed the gendarmes
along the passage which led to the court.
Daburon was now in anguish. He walked furiously
up and down his office, awaiting his prisoner. Again,
and for the twentieth time since morning, he regretted
his having engaged in the business.
"Curse on this absurd point of honor, which I have
obeyed," he exclaimed. "I have attempted to reassure
myself by the aid of sophisms. I have done wrong in
not withdrawing. Nothing in the world can change my
feelings against the young man. I hate him. I am his
judge; and it is no less true, that I have longed
to assassinate him. I once aimed at him with my re-
volver. Why did I not pull the trigger? Do I know
why? What power held my finger, when an almost in-
sensible pressure would have sufficed to strike the blow?
I cannot say. Why is not he the judge, and I the assas-
sin? If the intention was as punishable as the deed, my
neck would suffer. And is it under such conditions that
I dare examine him?"


THE WrDOW LEROUGE
Passing before the door, he heard the heavy step of
the gendarmes in the gallery.
"It is he," he said aloud; and then hastily took a seat
behind the table, bending into the shade of the portfolio,
as though striving to hide himself. If the long clerk
had had eyes, he would^have noticed the singular spec-
tacle of a judge, more anxious than the prisoner. But
he was blind to it; and, at this moment, he saw only an
error of fifteen centimes, which had slipped into his ac-
counts, and which he was unable to rectify.
Albert entered the judge's office erect. His features
bore traces of great fatigue and of long wakefulness.
He was very pale; but his eyes were clear and sparkling.
The usual questions which open such examinations
gave Daburon time to recover himself. Fortunately he
had found time in the morning to prepare a plan, which
he had now simply to follow.
"You are not ignorant, monsieur," he commenced
in a tone of perfect politeness, "that you have no right
to the name you bear?"
"I know, monsieur," replied Albert, "that I am the
natural son of Monsieur de Commarin. I know further
that my father would be unable to recognize me, if he
wished; since I was born during his marriage."
"What were your feelings upon learning this?"
"I should speak falsely, monsieur, if I said I did not
feel very bitterly. When one is in the high position I
occupied, the fall is terrible. However, I have never for
a moment thought of contesting Noel Gerdy's rights. I
have always purposed, and still purpose, to yield. I
have so informed M. de Commarin."
Daburon listened to this reply; and it only strength-
ened his suspicions. Did it not enter into the line of de-
fence which the prisoner had marked out for himself?


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 255
It was his duty now to seek some way of breaking up
this defence, in which the prisoner meant to shut him-
self up as in a shell.
"You could only oppose," continued the judge, "a
plea of non recevoir to Monsieur Gerdy. You had,
indeed, on your side, the count, and your mother; but
Gerdy had, on his side, testimony which it would have
been necessary to suppress,—that of the Widow Le-
rouge."
"I have never denied it, monsieur."
"Now," continued the judge, seeking to hide the look
which he fastened upon Albert, " Justice supposes that,
to do away with the only existing proofs, you have as-
sassinated the Widow Lerouge!"
This terrible accusation, terribly emphasized, caused
no change in Albert's features. He kept the same firm
bearing, without braggadocio. Not a wrinkle appeared
on his face.
"Before God," he answered, " and by all that is most
sacred on earth, I swear to you, monsieur, that I am
innocent! I have been to this moment a close prisoner,
without communication with the outer world, reduced
consequently to the most absolute helplessness. It is
through your probity that I hope to demonstrate my in-
nocence."
"What an actor!" thought the judge. "Can crime
give such force?"
He ran over the papers, reading certain passages of
the preceding depositions, turning down the corners of
certain pages which contained important information*
Then suddenly he continued,—
"When you were arrested, you cried out,' I am lost;'
what did you mean by that?"
"Monsieur," replied Albert, " I remember having ut-


256 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
tered those words. When I knew of what crime they
accused me, I was overwhelmed with consternation.
My spirit was, as it were, illuminated by a glimpse of
futurity. In less than a moment, I perceived all the hor-
rors of my situation. I saw the weight of the accusa-
tion, its probability, and the difficulties I should have
in defending myself. A voice cried out to me, ' Who,
then, is most interested in Claudine's death?' And the
knowledge of my imminent peril forced from me the
exclamation you speak of."
His explanation was more than plausible, was pos-
sible, and even probable. It had the advantage, too, of
anticipating the axiom,—
Search out the one whom the crime will benefit!
Tabaret had spoken truly, when he said that they had
not taken an unskilful prisoner.
Daburon admired Albert's presence of mind, and the
resources of his perverse imagination.
"You do, indeed," continued the judge, "appear to
have had the most serious interest in this death. You
see we are very sure that robbery was not the object
of the crime. The things thrown into the Seine have
been recovered. We know, also, that all the papers were
burnt. Could they compromise any one but yourself?
If you know of any one, speak."
"What can I answer, monsieur? Nothing."
"Have you gone often to this woman's house?"
"Three or four times, w.ith my father."
"One of your coachmen pretends to have driven you
there at least ten times."
"The man is mistaken. But what matters the num-
ber of visits?"
"Do you recollect the arrangement of the rooms?
Can you describe them?"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 257
"Perfectly, monsieur: there were two. Claudine
slept in the back room."
"It is understood that you were not unknown to the
Widow Lerouge. If you had knocked some evening
at her door, do you think she would have opened it for
you?"
"Certainly, monsieur, and eagerly."
"You have been unwell these last few days?"
"Very unwell; yes, monsieur, my body bent under
the weight of a burden too great for my strength. I
have not, however, lost my courage."
"Why did you forbid your valet de chambre, Lubin,
to call the doctor?"
"Ah, monsieur, how could the doctor reach my dis-
ease? All his science could not make me the legitimate
son of the Count de Commarin."
"Singular remarks made by you were overheard.
You seemed to be no longer interested in any thing
about the house. You destroyed papers and letters."
"I had decided to leave the house, monsieur. My
resolution explains all that."
To the judge's questions, Albert replied promptly,
without the least embarrassment, and in a confident tone.
His voice, of a sympathetic calibre, did not tremble. It
concealed no emotion; it retained its pure and vibrat-
ing sound.
Daburon believed it wise to suspend the examination.
With an adversary of this strength, he was evidently
pursuing a false course. To proceed in detail was folly;
they neither intimidated him nor made him break
through his reserve.
"Monsieur," said the judge abruptly, "tell me ex-
actly, I beseech you, how you passed your time last
Tuesday evening, from six o'clock until midnight?"


258 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
For the first time, Albert seemed disconcerted. His
eyes, which had, up to this time, been fixed upon the
judge, wandered.
"During Tuesday evening," he stammered, repeat-
ing the phrase to gain time.
"I have hit it," thought the judge, starting with joy,
and then added aloud, " yes, from six o'clock until mid-
night."
"I am afraid, monsieur," answered Albert, " it will
be difficult for me to satisfy you. I haven't a very good
memory."
"Oh, don't tell me that!" interrupted the judge. "If
I had asked what you were doing three months ago, on
a certain evening, and at a certain hour, I could ac-
count for your hesitation; but this is about Tuesday,
and it is now Friday. Moreover, this day, so close, was
the last of the carnival; it was Shrove Tuesday. That
circumstance ought to help your memory."
"That evening, I was walking," murmured Albert.
"Now," continued the judge, " where did you dine?"
"At home, as usual."
"No, not as usual. At the end of your meal, you
asked for a bottle of Bourdeaux, which you emptied.
You doubtless had need of some extra excitement for
your subsequent plans."
"I had no plans," replied the prisoner with a very
evident uneasiness.
"You deceive yourself. Two friends came to seek
you. You replied to them, before sitting down to din-
ner, that you had a very important engagement."
"That was only a polite way of getting rid of them."
"Why?"
"Can you not understand, monsieur? I was resigned,
but not comforted. I was learning to get accustomed


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 259
to the terrible blow. Does not one seek solitude in the
great crises of one's life?"
"The prosecution supposes that you wished to be left
alone, that you might go to Jonchere. During the day,
you said, ' She cannot resist me.' Of whom were you
speaking?"
"Of some one to whom I had written the evening
before, and who had replied to me. I spoke the words,
with her letter still in my hands."
"This letter was, then, from a woman?"
"Yes."
"What have you done with it?"
"I burned it."
"This precaution would seem to imply that you con-
sidered it as compromising."
"Not at all, monsieur; it treated entirely of private
matters."
Daburon was sure that this letter came from Mad-
emoiselle d'Arlanges. Should he nevertheless ask it,
and compel himself to again pronounce this name of
Claire, so terrible to him? He ventured to do so, hiding
his face behind a paper, so that the prisoner did not de-
tect his emotion.
"From whom did this letter come?" he asked.
"From one whom I cannot name."
"Monsieur," said the judge, addressing him severely,
"I will not conceal from you that your position is very
dangerous. Do not aggravate it by this culpable reti-
cence. You are here to tell every thing, monsieur."
"My affairs alone, not those of others."
Albert gave this last answer in a dry tone. He was
giddy, flurried, exasperated, by the prying and irritating
mode of the examination, which gave him no time to
breathe. The judge's questions fell upon him more


260 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
thickly than the blows of the blacksmith's hammer upon
the red hot iron which he is anxious to form before it
cools.
The apparent rebellion of his prisoner troubled Da-
buron seriously. He was further extremely surprised
to find the discernment of the old detective at fault; just
as though Tabaret were infallible. Tabaret had pre-
dicted an unexceptionable alibi; and this alibi was not
forthcoming. Why? Had this subtle villain something
better than that? What ruse had he at the bottom of
his bag? Doubtless he kept in reserve some unforeseen
stroke, perhaps irresistible.
"Gently," thought the judge. "I have not got him
yet." Then he quickly said aloud,—
"Go on. After dinner, what did you do?"
"I went out for a walk."
"Not immediately. The bottle drank, you smoked
in the dining room, which was so unusual as to be no-
ticed. What kind of cigars do you usually smoke?"
"Trabucos."
"Do you not use a cigar-holder, to keep your lips from
contact with the tobacco?"
"Yes, monsieur," replied Albert, much surprised at
this series of questions.
"What time did you go out?"
"About eight o'clock."
"Did you carry an umbrella?"
"Yes."
"Where did you go?"
"I walked about the streets."
"Alone, without an object, all the evening?"
"Yes, monsieur."
"Now trace out your wanderings for me exactly."
"Ah, monsieur, that is very difficult for me! I went


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 261
out simply to walk, to obtain exercise, to drive away the
torpor which had depressed me for three days. I don't
know whether you can picture to yourself my exact con-
dition. I had lost my head. I moved about at hazard
along the quays. I wandered through the streets,—"
"All that is very improbable," interrupted the judge
Daburon, however, knew that it was possible. Had not
he himself one night in a race of folly traversed all
Paris? What reply could he have made, if some one
had asked him next morning where he had gone, ex-
cept that he had not paid attention, and did not know?
But he had forgotten this; and his anguish, too, had
much less reason for it than Albert's.
The inquiry commenced, he had caught the fever of
investigation. He renewed his desire for the struggle,
his passion for his calling.
He became again a judge of inquiry, like the fencing
master, who, practicing with his dearest friend, elated
by the clash of weapons, becomes excited, forgets him-
self, and kills him.
"So," continued Daburon, "you met absolutely no
one who could affirm that he saw you? You did not
speak to a living soul? You went in nowhere,—not
even into a cafe or a theatre?"
"No, monsieur."
"Well, monsieur, it is a great misfortune for you,—
a very great misfortune; for I must inform you, that it
was precisely during this Tuesday evening, between
eight o'clock and midnight, that the Widow. Lerouge
was assassinated. Justice can point to the exact hour.
Again, monsieur, in your interests, I entreat you to re-
flect,—to make a strong appeal to your memory."
This pointing out of the exact day and hour of the
murder stunned Albert. He carried his hand to his


262 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
forehead with a despairing gesture. But he replied in a
calm voice,—
"I am very unfortunate, monsieur; but I have no ex-
planation to make."
Daburon's surprise was profound. What, not an
alibif Nothing? This could be no snare nor system of
defence. Was, then, this man as strong as he had imag-
ined? Doubtless; but he had been taken unaware,—
caught unprovided. He had never imagined that it was
possible for the accusation to fall upon him; it could
only do so by a miracle.
The judge raised slowly, and one by one, the large
pieces of paper that covered the convicting articles
seized in Albert's room.
"We will pass on," he continued, " to the examina-
tion of the charges which weigh against you. Will you
please come nearer? Do you recognize these articles as
belonging to yourself?"
"Yes, monsieur, they are all mine."
"Well, take this foil. Who broke it?"
"I, monsieur, in fencing with M. Courtivois, who
can bear witness to it."
"That will be inquired into. Where is the broken
end?"
"I do not know. Upon that point, you must ask my
valet de chambre, Lubin."
"Exactly. He declares that he has hunted for it,
and cannot find it. I must tell you that the victim re-
ceived the fatal blow with the end of a foil, broken and
sharpened. This piece of stuff, on which the assassin
wiped his weapon, proves it."
"I beseech you, monsieur, to order a most minute
search for this. It is impossible that the other half of
the foil is not to be found."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 263
"Orders have been given to that effect. See here,
traced out on this paper the exact imprint of the mur-
derer's foot. I have applied it to the sole of one of your
boots; it, at once, you perceive, adapts itself with the
utmost precision. This piece of plaster has been poured
into the hollow left by your heel: you observe that it is,
in all respects, your own heel. I perceive, too, the mark
of a peg, which is also here."
Albert followed with marked anxiety the judge's
every movement. It was plain that he was struggling
against a growing terror. Was he attacked by that
panic which stupefies criminals when £hey are on the
point of being convicted? To all remarks of the magis-
trate, he replied in a dull voice,—
"It is true,—perfectly true."
"Wait," continued Daburon; " listen further, before
crying out. The criminal had an umbrella. The end
of this umbrella sank in the mud; the round of wood-
work, which ends the cloth, was found moulded in the
hollow. Here is this clod of mud, raised with the ut-
most care; and here is your umbrella. Compare the
rounds. Are they alike, or not?"
"These things, monsieur," attempted Albert, "are
wonderful coincidences."
"Well, that remains to be proved; look at the end
of this cigar, found at the scene of the crime, and tell
of what brand it is, and how it was smoked."
"It is a trabuco, and was smoked w.ith a cigar-
holder."
"Like these, eh?" persisted the judge, showing the
cigars and holders of amber and meerschaum, taken
from the library mantel.
"Ah !" murmured Albert, " it is a fatality,—a won-
derful coincidence."


264 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Patience; that is nothing, as yet. The assassin of
the Widow Lerouge wore gloves. The victim, in the
convulsions of agony, seized the murderer's hands; and
these fragments of skin remained in her nails. These
were preserved, and are here. They are of pearl gray,
are they not? Now, here are the gloves which you wore
on Tuesday. They are gray, and they are frayed. Com-
pare these particles with your own gloves. Do they not
correspond? Are they not of the same color, the same
skin?"
He could neither deny it, equivocate, nor find sub-
terfuges. The evidence was there before his eyes. The
brutal deed shone forth. While appearing to occupy
himself solely with the objects lying upon his table, Da-
buron never lost sight of his prisoner. Albert was ter-
rified. A cold perspiration bathed his face, and glided
drop by drop down his cheeks. His hands trembled so
much that they were of no use to him. With a choking
voice he repeated,—
"It is horrible, horrible!"
"Finally," pursued the inexorable judge, "here are
the pantaloons you wore on the evening of the murder.
It is plain that they have been wet; and, besides the mud,
there are traces of dirt. Observe, too, they are torn on
the knees. We will admit, for the sake of argument,
that you might not remember where you went on that
evening; but who could believe that you do not know
where you tore your pantaloons and frayed your
gloves?"
What courage could resist such assaults? Albert's
firmness and energy were at an end. His brain whirled.
He fell heavily into a chair, exclaiming,—
"I shall go mad!"
"You see," insisted the judge, whose gaze had be-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 265
tome unbearably fixed upon him,—" you see that the
Widow Lerouge could only have been stabbed by you."
I see," protested Albert, " that I am a victim of one
of those terrible fatalities which makes men doubt the
evidence of their reason. I am innocent."
"Then tell me where you passed Tuesday evening."
"Ah, monsieur!" cried the prisoner, "I must,—"
But, restraining himself, he added in a dull voice, "I
have made the only answer that I can make."
Daburon arose, having now reached his final grand
stroke.
"It is, then, my duty," said he, with a shade of irony,
"to supply your failure of memory. I am going to re-
count to you what you did. On Tuesday evening, at
eight o'clock, after having received from wine a dread-
ful energy, you left your home. At thirty-five minutes
past eight, you took the cars at St. Lazare station. At
nine o'clock, you got out at Rueil station."
And, adopting without shame, the ideas of Pere
Tabaret, the judge of inquiry repeated nearly word for
word the tirade improvised the night before by his ama-
teur agent of police.
He had every reason, while speaking, to admire the
penetration of the old detective. In all his life, his elo-
quence had never produced so striking an effect. Every
sentence, every word, carried weight. The assurance
of the prisoner, already shaken, fell piece by piece, just
as the walls of a town give way when riddled with balls.
Albert was, as the judge perceived, like a man, who,
rolling to the bottom of a precipice, sees all the points
which might retard his fall fail him, and who feels a
new and more painful bruise at each projecture, against
which his body strikes.
"And now," concluded the judge of inquiry, " listen


266 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
to good advice: do not persist in this mode of denying,
impossible to sustain. Change your mind. Justice, be
assured, is ignorant of nothing which it is important to
know. Believe me; seek the indulgence of the courts:
confess your guilt."
Daburon.did not believe that his prisoner would again
refuse. He pictured him overwhelmed, confounded,
throwing himself at his feet, asking for mercy. But
he was deceived.
However great appeared Albert's prostration, he
found in one last effort of his will sufficient strength to
recover himself and again protest,—
"You are right, monsieur," he said in a sad, but firm
voice; "every thing seems to prove the criminal. In
your place, I should have spoken as you have done; and
yet I sw.ear to you that I am innocent."'
"Upon my word,"—began the judge.
"I am innocent," interrupted Albert; "and I repeat
it, without the least hope of changing in any way your
conviction. Yes, every thing speaks against me,—every
thing, even my own bearing before you. It is true, my
courage has been shaken by these incredible, miraculous,
overwhelming coincidences. I am overcome, because I
feel the impossibility of establishing my innocence. But
I do not despair. My honor and my life are in the hands
of God. At the same time that I appear to you lost,—
for I do not deceive myself, monsieur,—I do not despair
of a complete justification. I await it confidently."
"What have you to say?" interrupted the judge.
"Nothing but what I have already said, monsieur."
"So you persist in denying your guilt?"
"I am innocent."
"But this is folly—"
"I am innocent."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 267
"Very well," said Daburon; " that is enough for to-
day. You shall hear the reading of the official report,
and will then be taken back to your prison. I exhort
you to reflect. Night will perhaps bring on a better
feeling; if you wish at any time to speak to me, send
word and I will come to you. I will give orders to that
effect. You may read now, Constant."
When Albert departed with the gendarmes, the judge
muttered in a low tone, " There's an obstinate fellow for
you." He certainly had not a shadow of doubt. To
him, Albert was as surely the murderer as if he heard
him confess it. Even if he should persist in his purpose
of denial to the end of the investigation, it would be im-
possible, that, with the proofs already in existence, a
verdict of " Not guilty" should be rendered. It was
a hundred to one, that to all the questions the jury
would reply in the affirmative.
However, left to himself, Daburon did not experience
that intense satisfaction, mixed with vanity, which is
ordinarily felt after one has successfully conducted an
examination, when he has succeeded in getting his pris-
oner into Albert's state. Something disturbed him and
shocked him. At the bottom of his heart, he felt ill at
ease. He had triumphed; but his victory gave him only
uneasiness, pain, and vexation. A reflection so simple
that he could hardly understand why it had not occurred
to him before increased his discontent, and made him
angry with himself.
"Something told me," he muttered, "that I was
wrong to undertake this business. I am punished for
not having obeyed this inner voice. I must excuse my-
self from going on with it. This Viscount de Com-
marin has been arrested, imprisoned, examined, over-
powered: he will certainly be convicted, and probably


268 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
condemned. Had I been a stranger to the trial, I could
have appeared in Claire's presence. Her grief would
have been great. As her friend, I could have soothed
her, mingled my tears with hers, calmed her regrets.
With time, she might have been consoled,—perhaps
have forgotten him. She might, perhaps, then have re-
warded me; who knows? While now, whatever may
happen, I shall be an object of terror to her; she will
never be able to endure the sight of me. I shall always
in her eyes be the assassin of her lover. I have with
my own hands formed between her and myself an abyss
which centuries can never fill, by my own great fault."
The unhappy judge heaped the bitterest reproaches
upon himself. He was in despair. He had never so
hated Albert,—this wretched man, who, stained with a
crime, stood in the way of his happiness. Then how he
cursed Pere Tabaret! Alone, he should not have de-
cided so quickly. He would have thought over it, ma-
tured his decision, and certainly recollected the incon-
veniences, which now occurred to him. This man, like
a badly trained bloodhound, urged on and carried away
by his stupid passion, had become confused.
It was precisely this unfavorable moment that Taba-
ret chose for making his appearance before the judge.
He had been informed of the termination of the inquiry;
and he arrived, impatient to know what had passed,
swelling with curiosity, his nose in air, distended with
the sweet hope of hearing of the fulfilment of his predic-
tions.
"What answer did he make?" he asked almost before
he had opened the door.
"He is evidently the criminal," replied the judge,
with a harshness very different from his usual manner.
Pere Tabaret, who had expected to receive praises


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 269
by the basketful, was surprised at this tone! It was,
therefore, with great hesitancy that he offered his fur-
ther services.
"I have come," he said modestly, "to know if any
investigations are necessary to demolish the alibi offered
by the prisoner."
"He gave no alibi," replied the magistrate dryly.
"How," cried the old detective, " no alibi? Pshaw!
T ask pardon: he has of course then confessed every
thing."
"No," said the judge impatiently, " he has confessed
nothing. He acknowledges that the proofs are decisive:
he cannot give an account of how he spent his time; but
he protests his innocence."
In the centre of the office, Tabaret, his mouth wide
open, his eyes starting wildly, stood in the most gro-
tesque attitude his astonishment could effect. He was
literally thunderstruck.
In spite of his anger, Daburon could not help smil-
ing; and even Constant gave a grin, which on his lips
was equivalent to a paroxysm of laughter.
"Not an alibi, nothing? " murmured the old fellow.
"No explanations? The idea! It is inconceivable. Not
an alibit We must be mistaken: he is certainly not the
criminal. It cannot be at all!"
The judge of inquiry felt that the old amateur must
have been waiting the result of the examination at the
wine shop around the corner, or else that he had gone
mad.
"Unfortunately," said he, "we are not mistaken. It
is too clearly shown that Monsieur de Commarin is the
murderer. But, if you like, ask Constant for his report
of the examination, and run it over while I put these
papers in order."


270 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Very well," said the old fellow with feverish anxiety.
He sat down in Constant's chair, and, leaning his
elbows on the table, burying his hands in his hair, in less
than no time read through the report. When he had
finished, he arose wild, pale, his face distorted.
"Monsieur," said he to the judge in a strange voice,
"I have been the involuntary cause of a terrible mistake.
This man is innocent."
"Come, come," said Daburon without stopping his
preparations for departure, "you are losing your head,
my dear Tabaret. How, after all that you have read
there, can—?"
"Yes, monsieur, yes; it is because I have read this
that I entreat you to pause, or we shall add one more
to the sad list of judicial errors. Read this examination
over carefully; there is not a reply which does not de-
clare this unfortunate man innocent,—not one word
which does not throw out a ray of light. And he is
still in prison, still in solitary confinement?"
"He is; and there he will remain, if you please,"
broke in the judge. "It becomes you well to speak in
this manner, after the way you talked last night, while
I hesitated so much."
"But, monsieur," cried the old detective, " I say now.
precisely the same. Ah, wretched Tabaret! all is lost;
and they will not understand you. Pardon me, mon-
sieur, if I lack the respect due to your office; but you
have not grasped my method. It is, however, very sim-
ple. Given a crime, with all the circumstances and de-
tails, I construct, piece by piece, a plan of accusation,
which I do not warrant until it is entire and perfect.
If a man is found to whom this plan applies exactly in
every particular, the author of the crime is found; other-
wise, we have laid hands upon an innocent person. It is


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
271
not sufficient that such and such particulars seem to
point to him; it must be all or nothing. This is infalli-
ble. Now, in this case, how have I reached the crimi-
nal? By proceeding by inference from the known to the
unknown. I have examined his work; and I have
formed an idea of the worker. Reason and logic lead
us to what? To a villain, determined, courageous, and
prudent, versed in the business. And do you think that
such a man would neglect a precaution that would not
be omitted by the commonest tyro? It is inconceivable.
What! This man is so skilful as to leave such feeble
traces that they escaped Gevrol's practiced eye; and you
think he would risk discovery by leaving an entire night
unaccounted for? It's impossible! I am as sure of my
system as of a well-proved rule of arithmetic. The
Jonchere assassin had an alibi. Albert has offered none;
then he is innocent."
Daburon looked at the old detective pityingly,—much
as he would look at a remarkable monomaniac. When
he had finished,—
"My worthy Monsieur Tabaret," he said to him,
"you are entirely in the wrong. You err through an
excess of subtlety. You allow too freely to others the
wonderful sagacity with which you yourself are en-
dowed. Our man has failed in prudence, simply because
he believed his rank would place him above suspicion."
"No, monsieur,—no, a thousand times no. My crim-
inal,—the true one,—he whom we have yet to find,
would dread every thing. Besides, does Albert defend
himself? No. He is overwhelmed; because he per-
ceives the coincidences so fatal that they appear to con-
demn him, without a chance of escape. Did he try to
excuse himself? No. He simply replied, 'It is ter-
rible.' And then this reticence that I cannot explain."


272 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"I can explain it very easily; and I am as confident
as though he had confessed every thing. I have more
than sufficient proofs for that."
"Ah, monsieur, those proofs! There are always
enough of those against an arrested man. They have
existed against every innocent man who was ever con-
demned. Proofs! Why, I had them in quantities
against Kaiser, the poor little tailor, who—"
"Well," interrupted the judge, hastily, " if he is not
the one most interested in the crime, who is? His
father, the Count de Commarin?"
"No: the true assassin is a young man."
Daburon had arranged his papers, and finished his
preparations. He took up his hat, and, as he was go-
ing out, replied,—
"Adieu! Come and see me by-and-by, Tabaret, when
you have got rid of these fancies. To-morrow we will
talk the whole matter over again. I am rather tired to-
night." Then he added, addressing his clerk, "Con-
stant, bring me word, in the court of records, in case the
prisoner Commarin wishes to speak to me."
He had reached the door; but Tabaret barred his exit.
"Monsieur," said the old man, "in the name of
heaven listen to me! He is innocent, I swear to you.
Help me, then, to find the real criminal. Monsieur,
think of your remorse in case you take this false
step."
But the magistrate did not wish to hear more. He
pushed Pere Tabaret quickly aside, and hascened into
the gallery.
The old man now turned to Constant. He wished
to convince, persuade, prove to him. Lost trouble: the
tall clerk hastened to fold up his baggage, thinking of
his soup, which was growing cold.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 273
Having closed the study door, Pere Tabaret, wretch-
ed in spirit, was alone in the dark gallery. The noise of
die courts was hushed: all was silent as the tomb. The
old detective desperately grasped his hair with both
hands.
"Ah!" said he, " Albert is innocent; and it is I who
have betrayed him. I, like a madman, have infused into
the obstinate spirit of this judge a conviction that I can
no longer control. He is innocent, and is yet enduring
the most horrible anguish. If he should commit sui-
cide! There have been instances of wretched men, who
in despair at being falsely accused have killed them-
selves in their prison. Poor boy! But I will not abandon
him. I have ruined him: I will save him! I must, I
will find the criminal; and he shall pay dearly for my
mistake,—the scoundrel!"
CHAPTER XIII.
After seeing the Count de Commarin safely in his
carriage at the entrance of the palais de justice, Noel
Gerdy seemed inclined to leave him.
Resting one hand against the half-opened carriage-
door, he bowed respectfully, and said—
"When shall I have the honor of paying my respects
to you, monsieur?"
"Come with me now," said the old man.
The advocate, still leaning forward, muttered some
excuses. He had, he said, important business: he must
positively return to his rooms at once.
"Come," repeated the count, in a tone which admit-
ted of no reply.
Noel obeyed.


274 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"You have found your father," said M. de Com-
marin in a low tone; "but I must warn you, that you
at the same time lose your independence."
The carriage started; and now, for the first tims,
the count noticed that Noel had very modestly taken his
seat opposite him. This modest bearing pleased him
much.
"Sit here, by my side, monsieur," he said; " are you
not my son?"
The advocate, without replying, took his seat by the
side of the old man, but as far from him as possi-
ble.
He had received a terrible shock in Daburon's pres-
ence; for he retained none of his usual boldness, none
of that sang-froid by which he was accustomed to con-
ceal his feelings. Fortunately, the ride gave him time
to breathe, and to recover himself a little.
On the way from the palais de justice to their home,
not a word passed between the father and son.
When the carriage stopped before the flight of stairs,
and the count got out with Noel's assistance, there was
great commotion among the servants.
There were, it is true, few of them present, nearly all
having been summoned to the palais; but the count and
the advocate had scarcely disappeared, when, as if by
enchantment, they were all assembled in the entry. They
came from the garden, the stables, the cellar, and the
kitchen. Nearly all bore marks of their calling. One
young groom ran about with his wooden shoes filled
with straw, shuffling on the marble floor like a mangy
dog on the Gobelin tapestry. One of these fellows rec-
ognized Noel from his visit of the previous Sunday; and
that was enough to set fire to all these lovers of gossip,
thirsting for scandal.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 275
Since morning, moreover, the unusual events at the
Commarin house had started a great uproar in society.
A thousand stories were circulated, talked over, cor-
rected, and added to by the ill-natured and malicious,—
some abominably absurd, others simply idiotic. Twenty
people, very noble and still more proud, had not been
too proud to send their most intelligent servants to pay
a little visit among the count's servants, for the sole
purpose of learning something positive. As it was,
nobody knew any thing; and yet everybody was fully in-
formed.
Let any one explain who can this very common phe-
nomenon: a crime is committed; justice arrives, wrap-
ping itself in mystery; the police are still ignorant of al-
most every thing; and yet details of the most minute
character are circulated about the streets.
"Ah," said a cook, " that great dark fellow with the
whiskers is the count's true son!"
"You are right," said one of the servants who had
accompanied M. de Commarin; " as for the other, he is
no more his son than Jean here; who, by the way, will be
kicked out of doors, if he is caught in here with his
dirty working-shoes on."
"Likely story," exclaimed Jean smiling a little at
the danger which threatened him.
"He has been expected all the time," said the cook.
"Why, how is that?"
"Well, you see, one day, long ago, when the countess
who is now dead was out walking with her little son,
who was about six months old, the child was stolen
by gypsies. The poor lady was full of grief; but, above
all, feared her husband, who was not kind to her. What
was to be done? She purchased a brat from an old
woman, who happened to be passing; and, never having


276 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
noticed his child, the count has never known the differ-
ence since."
"But the assassination?"
"That's very simple. When the woman saw her brat
in such a nice berth, she bled him finely, and has kept
up a system of blackmailing all along. So he resolved
to put an end to it, and came to a final settling with her."
"And this brown fellow,—what about him?"
The orator would have gone on, without doubt, giv-
ing the most satisfactory explanations of every thing
if he had not been interrupted by the entrance of Lubin,
who came from the palais in company with young Jo-
seph. His success, so brilliant up to this time, was cut
short, just as that of an inferior singer when the star
comes on the stage. The entire assembly turned towards
Albert's valet de chambre, all eyes questioning him. He
knew at once that he was a man of importance; but he
did not abuse his advantages, and make his little world
languish too long.
"What a rascal!" he cried out. "What a villainous
fellow is this Albert!"
He purposely did away with "monsieur" and "vis-
count," and met with general approval for so doing.
"But," he added, "I always had my doubts. The
fellow didn't please me by half. Just see to what we
are exposed every day in our profession. It is dread-
fully disagreeable. The judge concealed nothing from
me. 'Lubin,' said he, 'it was very wrong for a man
like you to serve such a scoundrel.' For you must
know, that, besides an old woman of about eighty, he
also assassinated a young girl of twelve. The little
child, the judge told me, was chopped into bits."
"Ah!" put in Joseph; " he must have been a brute.
How they will give it to him for such a deed, even


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 277
though he is rich; for they always punish poor men,
who do it simply to gain a living!"
"Pshaw!" said Lubin in a knowing tone; " you will
see him come out of it as pure as snow. These rich
men can do any thing."
"But," said the cook, " I'd give willingly a month's
wages to be a mouse, and to listen to what the proud
count and the tall brown fellow are talking about. If
I could only get a little peep through the key-hole."
This proposition did not meet with much favor. The
servants knew by experience that, on important occa-
sions, spying was worse than useless.
M. de Commarin knew all about servants from
infancy.
His study was, therefore, a shelter to all imprudence.
The sharpest ear placed at the keyhole could understand
nothing of what was going on within, even when the
count was in a passion, and his voice loudest. One
alone, Denis, monsieur le premier, as they called him,
had the opportunity of gathering information; but he
was well paid for being discreet: and he was discretion
itself.
At this time, Monsieur de Commarin was sitting in
the same chair which he had beaten with such a furious
hand while listening to Albert.
From the moment he touched the step of his carriage,
the old gentleman recovered his haughtiness. He be-
came even more arrogant in his manner, as if he felt
the mortification of his attitude before the judge, and
wished himself dead for what he now considered an
unpardonable weakness.
He wondered how he could have yielded to a momen-
tary impulse,—how his grief could have so basely be-
trayed him.


278 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
At the remembrance of the avowals wrested from him
in his wildness, he blushed, and called himself the worst
of names.
Like Albert, the night before, Noel, having recovered
himself fully, held himself erect, cold as marble, respect-
ful, but no longer humble.
The father and son exchanged glances which had
nothing of sympathy nor of friendliness.
They examined one another; they measured each
other, much as two adversaries feel their way with their
eyes before encountering with their weapons.
"Monsieur," finally said the count in a hard tone,
"henceforth this house is yours. From this moment,
you are the Viscount de Commarin; you re-enter into
the fulness of the rights of which you have been de-
prived. Wait. Listen, before you thank me. I wish,
in the beginning, to relieve you from all misunderstand-
ing. Had I been master of the situation, I should never
have recognized you: Albert should have remained in
the position in which I placed him."
"I understand you, monsieur," replied Noel. "I
don't think that I could ever bring myself to do an act
like that by which you deprived me of my birthright;
but I declare that, if I had the misfortune to have done
it, I should have thereafter acted as you have. Your
rank was too conspicuous to permit a voluntary ac-
knowledgment. It was a thousand times better to suf-
fer an injustice to continue in secret than to expose
your name to the comments of the malicious."
This answer surprised the count, and very agreeably.
But he would not let his satisfaction be seen; and it
was with a still harder tone that he continued,—
"I have no claim, monsieur, upon your affection; I
do not ask for it; but I insist at all times upon the ut-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 279
most deference. It is traditional in our house, that the
son shall never interrupt his father when he is speak-
ing; that you have just been guilty of. Children are
not to judge their parents; that also you have just done.
When I was forty years of age, my father was in his
second childhood; but I do not remember having raised
my voice once above his. This much, said by way of
caution, I continue. I have undergone considerable ex-
pense in providing Albert with an establishment distinct
from my own,—with servants, horses, and carriages;
and I have allowed the unhappy boy four thousand
francs a month. I have decided, in order to put a stop
to all foolish gossip, and to make your position the
easier, that you ought to hold a more important place
in the house, this for my own sake. Further, I will
increase your monthly allowance to six thousand francs;
which I trust you will spend as nobly as possible, giv-
ing the least possible chance for ridicule. I cannot too
strongly exhort you to the utmost caution. Keep close
watch over yourself. Weigh your words well. Reason
about your slightest actions. You will be the point of
observation for thousands of impertinent idlers who
compose our world; your blunders will be their delight.
Do you fence?"
"Moderately well."
"So. Do you ride?"
"No; but in six months I will be a good horseman,
or break my neck."
"It is fashionable to be a horseman, not to break
one's neck. Let us proceed. You will, of course, not
occupy Albert's apartments. They will be closely locked,
as soon as they are free from the police. Thank heaven!
the house is large. You will occupy the other wing;
and there will be a separate entrance to your apart-


28o THE WIDOW LEROUGE
ments, by a separate staircase. Servants, horses, car-
riages, furniture, such as becomes a viscount, will be
at your service, cost what it may, within forty-eight
hours. On the day of your taking possession, you
must look as though you had been installed for years.
There will be great scandal; but that cannot be
avoided. A prudent father might send you away for
a few months to the Austrian court or to the Russian;
but, in this instance, such prudence would be absurd.
Much better a dreadful outcry, which ends quickly, than
low murmurs which last forever. Dare public opinion;
and, in eight days, it will have exhausted its comments,
and the story will have become old. So, to work!
This evening, the laborers shall be here; and, in the
first place, I must present you to my servants."
To put this purpose into execution, the count moved
to touch the bell-rope. Noel stopped him.
Since the commencement of this interview, the advo-
cate had wandered in the regions of the thousand and
one nights, the wonderful lamp in his hand. The fairy
reality cast into the shade his wildest dreams. He was
dazzled at the words of the count, and had
need of all his reason to struggle against the
giddiness which came over him, at realizing his great
good fortune. Touched by a magic wand, he seemed
to awake to a thousand novel and unknown sensations.
He rolled in purple and bathed in gold.
But he knew how to appear unmoved. His face had
contracted the habit of guarding the secret of the most
violent inner excitement. While all his passions vi-
brated within him, he listened apparently with a sad
and almost indifferent coldness."
"Permit me," he said to the count, "without over-
stepping the bounds of the utmost respect, to say a few


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 281
words. I am touched more than I can express by your
goodness; and yet, I beseech you, to delay its manifes-
tation. The proposition I am about to suggest may
perhaps appear to you worthy of consideration. It
seems to me that the situation demands the greatest
delicacy. It is well to despise public opinion, but not
to defy it. I am certain to be judged with the utmost
severity. If I instal myself so suddenly in your house,
what will they not say? I shall have the appearance of
a conqueror, who thinks little, in attaining his purpose,
of passing over the bodies of the conquered. They will
reproach me with occupying the bed still warm from
Albert's body. They will rail bitterly at my haste in
taking possession. They will certainly compare me
to Albert; and the comparison will be to my disadvan-
tage, because I seem to triumph at a time when a great
disaster has fallen upon our house."
The count listened without marked disapproval,
struck perhaps by the justice of his reasons.
Noel imagined that his hardness was much more
feigned than real; and this idea encouraged him.
"I beseech you then, monsieur," he continued, "to
permit me for the present in no way to change my mode
of living. By not showing myself, I leave all malicious
remarks to waste themselves in air,—I let public opin-
ion the better familiarize itself with the idea of a coming
change. There is a great deal in not taking the world
by surprise. By waiting, I shall not have the air of an
intruder on presenting myself. Absent, I shall have
the advantages which the unknown always possess,—
I shall draw to myself the good opinion of all those
who have envied Albert, I shall obtain as defenders all
those servants who would to-morrow assail me, if my
elevation came suddenly upon them. Besides, by this


282 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
delay, I should accustom myself to my abrupt change
of fortune. I ought not to bring into your world, which
is now mine, the manners of a parvenu. My name
ought not to incommode me, like an ill-made coat. And,
by thus acting, it will be possible for me to rectify, at
home and without noise, the mistakes of my early edu-
cation."
"Perhaps it would be the wisest," murmured the
count.
This assent, so easily obtained, surprised Noel. He
got the-idea that the count had only wished to prove
him, to test him. In any case, whether he had tri-
umphed by his eloquence, or whether he had simply
shunned a trap, he had triumphed. His boldness in-
creased ; he determined to make himself master in every
way.
"I must add, monsieur," he continued, " that I have
certain changes to bring about in myself. Before en-
tering upon duties in my new life, I ought to finish those
in my old. I have friends and clients. This event has
surprised me, just as I was beginning to reap the re-
ward of ten years of hard work and perseverance. I had
yet only sown; I was on the point of gathering in my
harvest. My name was already rising. I had obtained
some little influence. I confess, without shame, that I
have heretofore professed ideas and opinions that would
not be suited to this house; and it would be impossible
to-day or to-morrow for —"
"Ah!" interrupted the count in a bantering tone,
"you were a liberal. It is a fashionable disease. Al-
bert was a great liberal."
"My ideas, monsieur," said Noel eagerly, "were
those of every intelligent man who wishes to rise. Be-
sides, have not all parties one and the same aim—


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 283
power? They merely take different means of reaching
it. I will not enlarge upon this subject. Be assured,
monsieur, that I will respect my name, and think and
act as a man of my rank should."
"I trust so," said M. de Commarin; "and I hope
that you will never make me regret Albert."
"At least, monsieur, it will not be my fault. But
since you have mentioned the name of that unfortunate
young man, let us speak of him."
The count cast a look of defiance upon Noel.
"What can now. be done for Albert?" he asked.
"What, monsieur!" cried Noel with ardor, " would
you abandon him, when he has not a friend left in the
world? He is still your son, monsieur; he is my brother.
For thirty years he has borne the name of Commarin.
All the members of a family are one. Innocent, or
guilty, he has a right to count upon us; and we owe him
our assistance."
This was another of those sentiments which the count
recognized as Albert's; and this second one again
touched him.
"What do you then hope for, monsieur?" he asked.
"To save him, if he is innocent; and I love to believe
that he is. I am an advocate, monsieur; and I wish to
defend him. I have been told that I have considerable
talent; in such a cause, I must have. Yes, however
strong the charges against him may be, I will over-
throw them. I will dispel all doubts. The truth shall
burst forth through my voice. I will find new accents to
imbue the judges with my conviction. I will save him;
and this shall be my last cause."
"And if he should confess," said the count, "if he
should confess?"
"Then monsieur," replied Noel with a dark look, " I


284 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
will render him the last service, which in such a misfor-
tune I should ask of a brother,—the means of avoiding
judgment."
"That is well said, monsieur," said the count,—
"very well, my son."
And he extended his hand to Noel, who pressed it,
bowing with a respectful acknowledgment.
The advocate breathed again. At last he had found
the way to the heart of this haughty noble; he had con-
quered, he had pleased him.
"Let us return to ourselves," continued the count.
"I yield to the reasons which you have suggested. But
do not consider this a precedent. I never retire from a
plan once undertaken, unless it is proved to me to be
bad, and contrary to my interests. But at least nothing
need prevent your remaining here to-day, and dining
with me. We will, in the first place, see where you can
lodge until you formally take possession of the apart-
ments which are to be prepared for you."
Noel ventured to interrupt the old gentleman again.
"Monsieur," said he, " when you bade me follow you
here, I obeyed you, as was my duty. Now another and a
sacred duty calls me away. Madame Gerdy is at this
moment expiring. Ought I to leave the death-bed of
her who filled my mother's place?"
"Valerie!" murmured the count.
He leaned upon the arm of his chair, his face buried
iri his hands; in one moment the whole past rose up be-
fore him.
"She has done me great harm," he murmured, as if
answering his thoughts. "She has ruined my whole
life; but ought I to be implacable? She is dying from
the accusation which is hanging over our son, Albert.
It was I who was the cause of it all. Doubtless, in this


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 285
last hour, a word from me would be a great consolation
to her. I will accompany you, monsieur."
Noel started at this unexpected proposition.
"O monsieur!" said he hastily, "spare yourself, pray,
a heart-rending sight. Your going would be useless,
Madame Gerdy probably yet exists; but her mind is
dead. Her brain was unable to resist so violent a shock.
The unfortunate woman would neither recognize nor
understand you."
"Go then alone," sighed the count,—" go, my son."
The words " my son," pronounced with a marked em-
phasis, sounded like a note of victory in Noel's ears,
which only his studied reserve concealed.
He bowed to take his leave. The old gentleman signed
him to stay.
"In any event," he said, " a place at table will be set
for you here. I dine at precisely half-past six. I shall
be glad to see you."
He rang. Monsieur le premier appeared. "Denis,"
said he, " none of the orders I have given will affect this
gentleman. You will tell this to all the servants. This
gentleman is at home here."
The advocate took his leave; and the count felt great
comfort in being once more alone.
Since morning, events had followed one another with
such bewildering rapidity that his thoughts could
scarcely keep pace with them. At last, he was able to
reflect.
"There, then," said he to himself, " is my legitimate
son. I am sure of his birth, at any rate. Truly it would
be with a ba<J grace, were I to deny him. I find him an
exact picture of myself at thirty. He is a fine fellow,
this Noel, very fine. His features are decidedly in his
favor. He is intelligent and acute. He knows how to


286 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
be humble without lowering himself, firm without arro-
gance. His new and unexpected fortune does not make
him giddy. I augur well of a man who knows how to
bear himself in prosperity. He thinks well. He will
carry his title proudly. And yet I feel no sympathy
with him; it seems to me that I shall regret my poor
Albert. I never knew how to appreciate him. Un-
happy boy! To commit a dreadful crime! He must
have lost his reason. I do not like the sight of this one:
he is too clever. They say that he is perfect. He ex-
presses, at least, the noblest and most appropriate sen-
timents. He is kind and brave, magnanimous, gener-
ous, heroic. He is without malice, and is ready to sacri-
fice himself to repay me for what I have done for him.
He forgives Madame Gerdy; he loves Albert. That
makes me distrust him. But all young men nowadays
are so. Ah! w.e live in a happy age. Our children are
born free from all human mistakes. They have none of
the vices, passions, nor prejudices of their fathers; and
these precocious philosophers, models of sagacity and
virtue, are incapable of committing the least folly. Alas!
Albert, too, was perfect; and he has assassinated Clau-
dine! That might imply,—but what matters it?" he
added, half aloud. "I wish I had gone to see Valerie!"
And although the advocate had been gone at least
ten good minutes, M. de Commarin, not realizing how
time had passed, hastened to the window, in the hope
of seeing Noel in the yard, and hailing him.
But Noel had already gone. On leaving the house,
he had taken a cab as far as the Rue Bourgoyne, and
from thence to the Rue St. Lazare.
Arrived at his own door, he threw rather than gave
five francs to the driver, and ran rapidly up to the fourth
story.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 287
"Who has called upon me?" he asked of the maid.
"No one, monsieur."
He seemed relieved from a great anxiety, and spoke
again in a calmer tone.
"And the doctor?"
"He came this morning," replied the maid, "while
you were away; and he did not seem at all confident.
He has returned every hour, and is now here."
"Very well. I am going in to speak to him. If any
one calls, show them into my study, and call me."
While entering Madame Gerdy's chamber, Noel won-
dered how he could discover whether any one had been
in during his absence.
The sick woman, her eyes fixed, her face convulsed,
lay extended upon her back.
She seemed dead, save for suden starts, which at in-
tervals shook her and disturbed the bedclothes.
Above her head was placed a little vessel, filled with
ice water, which fell drop by drop upon her face and
upon her forehead, covered with large bluish spots.
The table and mantel were laden with little pots, orna-
mented with strings of roses, vials for medicines, and
half-emptied glasses.
At the foot of the bed, a piece of linen stained with
blood showed that they had been using leeches.
Near the fireplace, where burned a large fire, a nun
of the order of St. Vincent de Paul was crouching,
watching a kettle boil.
She was a woman still young, her face whiter than
her skirt. Her features were immovably placid, her look
mournful, betraying the renunciation of the flesh, and
the abdication of all independence of thought.
Her dress of gray hung from her in large ungraceful
folds. At her every motion, her large bead-roll of dyec*


288 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
box-wood, weighed down by a cross and copper medals,
was shaken, and dragged on the ground with a noise
like a chain.
Upon a chair opposite the bed Dr Herve sat, follow.-
ing apparently with close attention the sister's prepara-
tions. He raised himself eagerly, as Noel entered.
"At last you are here," he said, giving his friend a
strong grasp of the hand.
"I was detained at the palais," said the advocate, as
if he felt the necessity of explaining his absence; " and
I have been, as you may well imagine, dreadfully
anxious."
He bent down to the doctor's ear, and, with his voice
trembling with anxiety, asked,—
"Well?"
The doctor shook his head with an air of deep dis-
couragement.
"She is much worse," he replied; "since morning,
bad symptoms have succeeded each other with frightful
rapidity."
He checked himself. The advocate seized his arm,
and pinched it. Madame Gerdy had stirred a little, and
let a feeble groan escape her.
"She understood you," murmured Noel.
"I wish it were so," said the doctor; "it would be
most encouraging. But you are mistaken. However,
go to her."
He approached Madame Gerdy, and taking her pulse,
examined it carefully; then, with the end of his finger,
he lightly raised the eyelid.
The eye appeared dull, glassy, lifeless.
"Come, judge for yourself; take her hand, speak to
her."
Noel, trembling all over, obeyed his friend. He ad-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 289
vanced, and, leaning on the bed so that his mouth al-
most touched her ear, he murmured,—
"Mother, it is I,—Noel,—your own Noel. Speak
to me, make some sign, if you know me, mother."
It was in vain; she retained her frightful immobility.
Not a sign of intelligence crossed her features.
"You see," said the doctor, " I told you the truth."
"Poor woman!" sighed Noel, " does she suffer?"
"Not now."
The nun now rose; and she too came near the bed.
"Doctor," said she, " it is all ready."
"Then call the maid, sister, to help us. We are going
to apply a mustard poultice."
The servant hastened in. In the arms of the two
women, Madame Gerdy was like a corpse, whose last
toilet they were making. She was rigid as though she
were dead. She must have suffered much and long,
poor woman! for it was pitiable to see how thin she was.
The nun herself was affected, although she had become
habituated to the sight of suffering. How many sick
people had breathed their last in her arms during the
fifteen years that she had gone from pillow to pillow!
Noel, during this time, had retired into the recess of
the window, and pressed his burning brow against the
panes.
Of what was he thinking, while she was dying a few
paces from him,—she who had given him so many
proofs of maternal tenderness and devotion? Did he
regret her? Did he not think rather of the grand and
magnificent existence which was awaiting him on the
other side of the river, at the Faubourg St. Germain?
He turned abruptly about, upon hearing the voice of his
friend.
"It is done," said the doctor; "we have only now


290 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
to wait the effect of the mustard. If she feels it, it will
be a good sign; if it has no effect, we will try cupping."
"And if she never stirs?"
The doctor answered only with a shrug of the shoul-
ders, which showed his feeling of absolute powerless-
ness.
"I understand your silence, Herve," murmured Noel.
"Alas! you fear that to-night she is lost."
"Scientifically, yes; but I do not yet despair. It was
hardly a year ago that the grandfather of one of our
comrades was saved in an almost identical case; and I
have seen worse cases than this,—where suppuration
had commenced."
"It breaks my heart to see her in that state. Must
she die without recovering her reason for one moment?
Will she not recognize me, speak one word to me?"
"Who knows? This disease, my poor friend! baffles
all foresight. Each moment, the aspect may change,
according as the inflammation affects such or such a part
of the encephalic mass. She is now in a state of utter
insensibility, of the destruction of all her intellectual
faculties, of drowsiness, of paralysis; to-morrow, she
may be taken with convulsions, accompanied with a
lightness of the brain, a fierce delirium."
"And will she speak then?"
"Without doubt; but that will not change either the
nature or the gravity of the disease."
"And will she recover her reason?"
"Perhaps," answered the doctor, looking fixedly at
his friend; " but why do you ask that?"
"Ah, my dear Herve, one word from Madame Gerdy,
—only one, would be of such use to me!"
"In your affairs, eh? Well, I can tell you nothing,
can promise you nothing. You have chances in your


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 291
favor, and chances against you; only do not be far
away. If her intelligence returns, it will be only by
flashes; try and profit by them. But I must go," added
the doctor: "I have still three visits to make."
Noel followed his friend. When he reached the stair-
case,—
"You will return?" he asked.
"This evening, at nine. There is no need of me at
present. All depends upon the watcher. But I have
chosen a pearl. I know her well."
"It was you, then, who brought this nun?"
"Yes, with your permission. Are you displeased?"
"Not the least in the world. Only, I confess—"
"What? you make a face. Perhaps you object to
having your mother nursed by a daughter of St. Vin-
cent?"
"My dear Herve, you—"
"Well, I agree with you entirely. They are adroit,
insinuating, dangerous, I know. If I had an old uncle,
whose heir I expected to be, I shouldn't bring one of
these into my house. These good daughters are some-
times charged with strange commissions. But what is
there to fear now? Let them speak their foolish words.
Money aside, these good sisters are the best nurses in
the world. I hope you will have one on your death-bed.
But good-by; I am in a hurry."
So, regardless of his professional dignity, the doctor
jumped down the stairs; while Noel, thoughtful, his face
charged with anxiety, went back into Madame Gerdy's
room.
Upon the threshold of the sick-room, the nun awaited
the advocate's return.
"Monsieur," said she, " monsieur."
"You want something of me. sister?"


292 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Monsieur, the maid bade me come to you for money;
she has no more, and had to get credit at the apothe-
cary's."
"Excuse me, sister," interrupted Noel in no very
eager tone,—"excuse me for not having anticipated
your request; but you see I am a little confused."
And, taking out a hundred franc note, he laid it on
the mantel.
"Thanks, monsieur," said the sister; "I will keep
account of all expenses. We always do this," she added;
"it is more convenient for the family, — one is so
troubled at seeing one we love sick. You have perhaps
not thought of giving this poor lady the sweet aid of our
beloved religion? In your place, monsieur, I should
send without delay for a priest,—"
"Why, sister, you see the condition she is in I She
is the same as dead; you saw that she did not heed my
voice."
"That is of little consequence, monsieur," replied the
sister: "you ought always to do your duty: She did
not reply to you; but are you sure that she would not
reply to a priest? Ah, you do not understand all the
power of the last rites! I have seen even the dying re-
vive their intelligence and strength to make confes-
sion, and to receive the sacred body of our Lord Jesus
Christ. I have often heard families say, that they did
not wish to frighten their sick fiiend,—that the sight
of the minister of our Lord would inspire a terror that
would hasten the final end. It is a grievous error. The
priest does not terrify; he reassures the soul, at the
beginning of its long journey. He speaks in the name
of the God of mercy, who comes to save, not to destroy.
I could cite to you many cases of dying people who have
been cured simply by contact with the sacred balm."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 293
The good sister spoke in a tone mournful as her look.
Her heart was evidently not in the words she pronounced.
Without doubt, she had learned them when she first
entered the convent. Then they expressed something
she really felt,—she spoke her own thoughts; but, since
then, she had repeated the words over and over again
to the friends of every sick person, until they lost all
meaning. It was thereafter only a succession of hack-
neyed words, which she spoke much as she did the Latin
words in her rosary. It became simply a part of her
duties as nurse, like the preparation of draughts, and
the making of poultices.
Noel did not listen to her; his thoughts were far away.
"Your dear mother," continued the sister, " this good
lady that you love so much, ought to have the aid of her
religion. Do you wish to endanger her soul? If she
could speak in the midst of these cruel sufferings—"
The advocate was on the point of replying, when the
servant announced that a gentleman, who would not
give his name, wished to speak with him on business.
*' I will come," he said quickly.
"What do you decide, monsieur ?" persisted the nun.
"I leave you free, sister, to do as you may judge
best."
The worthy woman began to recite her lesson of
thanks but uselessly. Noel had disappeared with a dis-
pleased look; and almost immediately she heard his
voice in the next room, saying,—
"Ah, Clergeot, I had almost given up seeing you!"
The visitor, who awaited the advocate, was a person
well known in the Rue St. Lazare, from Rue Provence
to the quarters of Notre Dame de Lorette, and all along
the outer boulevards, from the embankment of Martyri
to the cross-roads at Clichy.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Clergeot was no more a usurer than the father of
M. Jourdain was a merchant. Only having more money
than lie could very well use, he lent it to his friends;
and, in return for this kindness, he consented to receive
interest, which varied from twenty to thirty per cent.
The excellent man positively enjoyed the practice;
and his honesty was generally appreciated. He was
never known to arrest a debtor; he preferred to follow
him without relaxation or intermission for ten years,
and drag from him bit by bit what was due him.
He lived near the top of the Rue Victoire. He had no
shop; and yet he sold everything salable, and some
other things, too, that the law scarcely considers mer-
chandise,—any thing to be useful or neighborly. He
often asserted that he was not rich. It was possibly
true. He was odd, very covetous, and fearfully bold.
Light in purse when it suited him, he would not lend
a hundred sous, even with the Ferriere's guarantee, to
those who did not please him; but he would risk his all
on the smallest chance at cards.
His preferred customers consisted of young girls,
actresses, artists, and those venturesome fellows who
enter upon a profession worth only what they can earn,
such as advocates and doctors.
He lent to women upon their present beauty, to men
upon their future talent. Slight pledges! His sagacity,
it should be said, however, enjoyed a great reputation.
It was rarely deceived. A girl of the town, furnished
by Clergeot, had a great start in the world. For an
actress to be in Clergeot's debt was a recommendation
preferable to the warmest criticism.
Madame Juliette had procured this useful and hon-
orable alliance for her lover.
Noel, who knew well how sensitive this worthy man


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 295
was to kind attentions, and how pleased by politeness,
began by offering him a seat, and asking after his health.
Clergeot gave details. His teeth were still good; but
his sight was beginning to fail. His leg was growing
soft, and his ear hard. The chapter of grievances ended,
"you know," he said, " why I have come. Your notes
fall due to-day; and I am in devilish need of money. I
have one of ten, one of seven, and a third of five thou-
sand francs: total, twenty-two thousand francs."
"Ah, Clergeot," replied Noel, " not a bad joke, this!"
"Joke?" said the usurer; " I am not joking at all."
"I hope you are. Why, it's just eight days to-day
since I wrote to tell you that I could not be ready, and
asking for a renewal!"
"I remember perfectly receiving your letter."
"What do you say to it, then?"
"By my not answering the note, I supposed that you
would understand that I could not comply with your
reouest. I trust that you will exert yourself to find the
amount for me."
Noel let a gesture of impatience escape him.
"I cannot do it," he said; " so take your own course.
I haven't a sou."
"The devil! Do you know that I have renewed these
notes four times already?"
"I know that the interest has been fully and promptly
paid, and at a rate which need not make you regret the
investment."
Clergeot never liked to talk about the interest he re-
ceived.
He pretended that it was humiliating.
"I do not complain; I only say that you take' things
too easily with me. If I had put your signature in cir-
culation, it would be paid the moment it came due."


298 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
to last a year. You don't know 1 ow to look after your
own interests. I know that her glance would strike
terror into a stone saint; and she knows her business
well. Why, there are not ten girls in Paris who live in
such style! And do you think she will love you any
the more? Not a bit of it. When she has ruined you,
she'll leave you in the lurch."
Noel accepted the eloquence of his prudent banker
something as a man without an umbrella accepts a
shower.
"What is the object of all this? " he asked.
"Simply that I will not renew your notes. You un-
derstand? At the moment they fall due, you must hand
me the twenty-two thousand francs in question. You
need not frown: you will find means to do it, to prevent
my attaching your goods,—not here, for that would be
absurd, but at your little girl's house; who would
scarcely be pleased, and who won't hesitate to show her
displeasure."
"But it is her own house; and you have no right—"
"What of that? She is the cause of all this trouble. I
could well wait; but she is wasting your money. Believe
me, you had best parry the blow. I wish to be paid now.
I won't give you any further delay; because, for three
months, you have been living on your last resources. It
won't do. You are in one of those conditions that must
be continued at any price. You would burn the wood
from your dying mother's bed to warm this creature's
feet. What has become of the ten thousand francs that
you left with her the other evening? Who knows what
you will attempt, to procure money? The idea of striv-
ing to ward it off fifteen days, three days, perhaps but
a single day more! Open your eyes. I know the game
well. If you do not leave Juliette, you will be ruined.


300 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
be in precisely the same condition you are to-day. And
forty-five days more of Juliette will —"
"Monsieur Clergeot," answered Noel, " long before
that time, my position will be completely changed. But
I have finished," he added rising; " and my time is val-
uable,"
"One moment, you impatient fellow," interrupted the
good-natured banker, "you said twenty-four thousand
francs in forty-five days?"
"Yes. That is about sixty-five per cent,— pretty fair
interest."
"I never cavil about interest," said Clergeot;
"but—"
He looked sharply at Noel, rubbing his chin violently,
a movement which in him indicated intense brain work.
"Only," he continued, "I should like to know upon
what you are counting."
"That I cannot tell you. You will know it ere long,
in common with all the world."
"I have it," cried Clergeot,—" I have it; you are
going to marry. You have found an heiress; your little
Juliette told me something of that sort this morning.
Ah ! you are going to marry. Is she pretty? But what
matters it? She has a full purse, eh? You wouldn't
take her without that. Then you will keep house?"
"I did not say so."
"That's right. Be discreet. But I can take a hint.
One word more. Be careful; your little girl has a sus-
picion of the truth. You are right; it wouldn't do to
be seeking money now. The slightest mis-step would
be sufficient to put your father-in-law upon the track of
your financial position; and you would lose the girl.
Marry, and settle down. But conceal it from Juliette;
or I would not give a hundred sous for your wedding.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 301
So it is settled. Prepare a bill of exchange for twenty-
four thousand francs, and I will bring your notes to you
on Monday."
"You haven't them with you, then?"
"No. And, to be frank with you, I confess that,
knowing well I should get nothing from you, I left them
with others,—with the sheriff. However, you may rest
easy; you have my word."
Clergeot made an appearance of retiring; but, just as
he was going out, he turned sharply around.
"I forgot," said he; " while you are about it, you can
make the bill for twenty-six thousand francs. Your
little girl ordered some dresses, which I shall de-
liver to-morrow: they may as well be paid in the same
way."
The advocate began to remonstrate. He would cer-
tainly not refuse to pay, only he thought he ought to be
consulted in the purchase. He didn't like this way of
disposing of his money.
"What a fellow!" said the usurer, shrugging his
shoulders; "do you want to make the girl unhappy?
You must keep her in good humor; think how she might
affect the marriage. And you know that, if you need
any advances for the wedding, you have but to guaran-
tee me. Speak to your notary, and every thing shall be
arranged. But I must go. On Monday, then?"
Noel watched, to make sure that the usurer had ac-
tually gone. When he saw that he was not lingering on
the staircase, "Fool!" he cried, "miserable thieving
old skinflint! He is on the wrong track,—the track,
however, that he himself chose to pursue. It would
be a fine thing, if this should get to the count's ears.
Miserable usurer! I feared for awhile that I should
have to tell him all."


302 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
While inveighing thus against his banker, the advo-
cate looked at his watch.
"Half-past five already," he said.
His indecision was great. Should he dine with his
father? Could he leave Madame Gerdy? He longed
to dine at the Commarin house; yet, on the other hand,
to leave a dying woman!
"Decidedly," he said, " I can't go."
He sat down at his desk, and with all haste wrote a
letter of apology to his father. Madame Gerdy, he
wrote, might breathe her last at any moment: he must
remain within call.
After he had bade the servant give the note to a mes-
senger, to carry it to the count, a sudden thought oc-
curred to him.
"Does madame's brother," he asked, "know that
she is dangerously ill?"
"I do not know, monsieur," replied the girl; " at any
rate, it was not my fault."
"What, did you not think to inform him, in my ab-
sence? Run to his house quickly. Have him sought
for, if he is not at home; bring him here."
More tranquil after that, he went in to sit in the sick
room. The lamp was lighted; and the sister moved back
and forth, putting every thing in place, dusting and ar-
ranging. She wore an air of satisfaction, that did not
escape Noel.
"Have we any gleam of hope, sister?" he asked.
"Perhaps," replied the nun. "The priest has been
here, monsieur: your dear mother did not notice his
presence; but he is coming back. That is not all. Since
the priest was here, the mustard has taken admirably.
The skin is quite reddened. I am sure she feels."
"God grant it, sister!"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
the course of his ideas may change, from the beginning
to the end of a repast, should be very modest. A phil-
osopher has plainly demonstrated that heroism is but an
affair of the stomach. .
The old fellow, looked at the situation in a much less
sombre light. Was there not plenty of time before him?
What could not such a man as he do in a month? Was
his usual penetration to fail him now? Certainly not.
His great regret was, his inability to let Albert know
that some one was working for him.
He was entirely another man, upon leaving the table;
and it was with a cheerful step that he walked towards
the Rue St. Lazare. Nine o'clock sounded, as the por-
ter opened the door for him. He jumped up stairs four
steps at a time, to receive news of his old friend, of her
whom he used formerly to call the excellent, the worthy
Madame Gerdy.
Noel opened the door to him,—Noel, who had doubt-
less been thinking of the past; for he looked as sad as
though the dying woman was really his mother.
In consequence of this unexpected circumstance, Pere
Tabaret for a few moments could not help thinking of
certain difficulties which he should experience.
He knew very well, that, finding himself with the ad-
vocate, he would be unavoidably led to speak of the
Lerouge affair; and how could he do this, knowing, as
he did, the particulars much better than his young friend
himself, without exposing himself to betrayal? But a
single imprudent word would reveal the part he was
playing in this sad drama. Now it was from his dear
Noel, the future Viscount de Commarin, above all
others, that he wished entirely to conceal his connection
with the police. ,
But, on the other hand, he thirsted to know what had


306 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Pere Tabaret put so much warmth and vivacity into
this exclamation, that Noel looked at him with a sort of
wonder. He felt the color rising in his cheeks, and he
hastened to explain himself. "I said, 'you, too,'" he
continued, " because that I, thanks perhaps to my inex-
perience, am persuaded of the innocence of this young
man. I cannot in the least imagine a man of that rank
meditating and accomplishing so cowardly a crime. I
have spoken with many persons on this matter which has
made so much noise; and everybody is of my opinion.
He has public opinion in his favor; that is already some-
thing."
Seated near the bed, sufficiently far from the lamp to
be in the shadow, the nun hastily knitted stockings des-
tined for the poor. It was a purely mechanical work;
during which she usually prayed. Eut, since the en-
trance of Pere Tabaret, she forgot, in listening, her ever-
lasting prayer. What did this conversation mean? Who
could this woman be? And this young man who was
not her son, and who yet called her mother, and at the
same time spoke of a veritable son accused of being an
assassin? Before this she had overheard mysterious re-
marks between Noel and the doctor. Into what singular
house had she fallen? She was a little afraid; and her
conscience was sorely troubled. Was she not sinning?
She resolved to tell all to the priest, when he returned.
"No," said Noel,—" no, Tabaret; Albert has not
public opinion with him. We are sharper than that in
France, you must know. When a poor devil is ar-
rested, entirely innocent, perhaps, of the crime charged
against him, we usually throw stones at him. We keep
all our pity for him, who, without doubt the criminal,
comes before the court of assizes. As long as justice
hesitates, we sjde with the prosecution against the


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
prisoner. The moment she announces that the man is
a criminal, all our sympathies are in favor of acquitting
him. That's public opinion. You understand, how-
ever, that that affects me but little. I despise it to such
an extent, that if, as I dare still hope, Albert is not re-
leased, I will be his defender. Yes, I have told my
father as much, the Count de Commarin. I will be his
advocate; I will save him."
Gladly would the old man have thrown himself on
Noel's neck. He longed to say to him, " We two will
save him." But he restrained himself. Would not
the advocate misunderstand him, if he confessed? He
resolved, however, to reveal all if it became necessary,
and if Albert's interests took a more dangerous turn.
For the present, he contented himself with strongly
approving his young friend.
"Bravo! my child," said he; "you have a noble
heart. I feared to see you spoiled by wealth and rank.
Pardon me; you remain, I see, what you have always
been in your humble position. But, tell me, have you,
then, seen your father, the count?"
Now, for the first time, Noel seemed to notice the
eyes of the sister; which, lighted by eager curiosity,
glittered in the shadow like carbuncles. By a look, he
pointed her out to the old man, and said,—
"I have seen him; and every thing is arranged to
my satisfaction. I will tell you all, in detail, by-and-
by, when we are more by ourselves. By this bedside, I
almost blush at my happiness."
Tabaret was obliged to content himself with this re-
ply and this promise. Seeing that he should learn
nothing this evening, he spoke of going to bed declar-
ing himself wearied out, as the result of certain things
he had had to do during the day. Noel did not urge


308 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
his remaining. He himself was waiting, he said, for
Madame Gerdy's brother, who had been sent for sev-
eral times without finding him in. He would be much
embarrassed, he added, in this brother's presence; he
did not yet know what conduct he ought to pursue.
Should he tell fiim all? But that would only increase
his grief. On the other hand, silence obliged him to'
play a difficult part. The old man advised him to keep
silent, to put off all explanation until later.
"What a fine fellow is this Noel!" murmured Pere
Tabaret, on gaining his apartments as gently as pos-
sible.
He had been absent from home twenty-four hours;
and he had to go through a formidable scene with his
household. Mannette was in a particularly bad humor:
so she declared decidedly, and once for all, that she
would get a new place, if her master did not change his
conduct.
She had remained awake all night, in a terrible
fright, listening to the least sound on the stairway, ex-
pecting to see her master brought home on a litter, as-
sassinated. Then there had been great commotion in
the house. M. Gerdy had gone out a short time after
monsieur, and had returned two hours later. After he
had come in, there had been constant inquiries for the
doctor. Such goings on would be the death of her,
without forgetting her temperament, which could not
endure these constant worries. But Mannette forgot
that the worry was not on her master's account nor
on Noel's but for a little affair of her own,—one of
those handsome guards of Paris having promised to
marry her, but for whom she had waited in vain,—the
rascal!
She burst forth in reproaches, while she was laying


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
the table for her master, too frank, she declared, to
keep any thing on her mind, and keep her mouth closed,
when she felt so much interest in monsieur, in his
health and reputation. Monsieur made no reply, not
being, in the mood for argument. He bent his head to
the squall, turning his back to the storm. But, when
Mannette had finished her preparations, he shoved her
out of the room without ceremony, and double locked
the door.
He busied himself in forming a new line of battle,
and in deciding upon prompt and active measures.
Rapidly he analyzed the situation. Had he been de-
ceived in his investigations? No. Had his calcula-
tions of probabilities been erroneous? No. He had
started with a positive fact, the murder. He had dis-
covered the particulars; his inferences were correct,
and must inevitably point at a criminal such as he had
indicated: and this criminal could not be Monsieur
Daburon's prisoner. His confidence in a judicial axiom
had led him astray, when he pointed out Albert.
"See," thought he, "where their standard opinions
and absurd axioms, all cut and dried, lead us, when
they are foolishly followed, like the landmarks on a
road! Left free to my own inspirations, I formed this
case very profoundly. I did not trust to chance. The
formula, 'Seek out the one whom the crime benefits *
may be as often absurd as true. The heirs of a man
assassinated are in reality all benefited by a murder;
while the assassin receives at most the watch or purse
of the victim. Three persons were interested in the
death of the Widow Lerouge,—Albert, Madame Gerdy,
and the Count de Commarin. It is plain to see that
Albert is not the criminal. It is not Madame Gerdy,
who has been killed by the unexpected announcement


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
of the crime. There remains, then, the count. Can it
be he? He certainly did not do it himself. He hired
some wretch,—a wretch of good position, if you please,
wearing well-varnished boots of a good make, and
smoking trabucos with an amber mouth-piece. These
villains of good position ordinarily lack nerve. They
cheat, they forge; but they don't assassinate. But here
the count would simply exchange a rabbit for a hare.
He would merely substitute one accomplice for another
still more dangerous. That would be idiotic; and the
count is an intelligent man. He is, therefore, out of
the question. I shall have to start off on another tack.
"Another thing, the Widow Lerouge, who so dex-
terously exchanged the children while nursing them,
would be very likely to undertake a number of danger-
ous commissions. Who can prove that she has not
made it, before now, the interest of some one else to get
her out of the way? There is a mystery here. I am
impatient; but I have not yet unraveled it. One thing
is sure though, she was not assassinated to prevent
Noel from recovering his rights. She must have been
suppressed for some analogous reason, by a bold, ex-
perienced scoundrel, who wore the clothing I fixed
upon Albert. It is, then, this scent I must follow.
And, above all, I must have the past history of this
obliging widow: and I will have it, too; for the in-
vestigations ordered at her birthplace will be in court
to morrow."
Returning now to Albert, Pere Tabaret weighed the
charges which were brought against the young man,
and reckoned the chances which he still had.
"From the look of things," he murmured, "I see
only luck and myself; that is to say, absolutely nothing
in his favor at present. As to the charges, they are


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
countless. However, it is no use going over them.
It is I who amassed them; and I know what they are
worth! At once every thing and nothing. What do .
signs prove, however striking they may be, in this case,
where one ought to disbelieve even the witness of his ,'
own senses? Albert is a victim of the most remarkable
coincidences: but one word might explain them. I
have seen many just such cases. It was even worse
in the affair of my little tailor. At five o'clock, he
bought a knife, which he showed to ten of his friends,
saying, this is for my wife, who is an idle jade, and
who plays me false with my servants. In the evening,
the neighbor heard a terrible quarrel between the cou-
ple,—cries, threats, stamping, blows; then suddenly
all was quiet. The next day, the tailor had disap-
peared from his house; and they discovered the woman
dead, with the very same knife buried to the hilt be-
tween her shoulders. Ah, well! it turned out it was
not the husband who had planted it there; it was a jeal-
ous lover. After that, what is to be believed? Albert,
it is true, will not give an account of how he passed the
evening. That does not affect me. The question for
me is not to prove where he was but that he was not at
Jonchere. Perhaps, after all, Gevrol was on the right
track. I hope so, from the bottom of my heart. Yes;
God grant that he may be successful. My vanity and
my mad presumption will deserve the slight punish-
ment of his triumph over me. What would I not give
to establish this man's innocence? Half of my fortune
would be but a small sacrifice. If I should be foiled;
if, after having caused the evil, I should find myself
powerless to undo it!"
Pere Tabaret went, to bed, shuddering at this last
thought. He fell asleep, and had a terrible nightmare.


312 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Lost in that vulgar crowd, which, on the days when
society revenges itself, presses about the Place de la
Roquette and watches the last convulsions of one con-
demned to death, he attended Albert's execution. He
saw the unhappy boy, his hands bound behind his back,
his collar turned down, ascend, supported by a priest,
the steep flight of stairs leading to the scaffold. He
saw him upright upon the fatal platform, throwing his
pious gaze upon the dismayed assembly. Soon the
eyes of the condemned man met his own; and, break-
ing his cords, he pointed him, Tabaret, out in the crowd
saying, in a loud voice, " There is my assassin." Then,
a great clamor arose to curse him. He wished to es-
cape; but his feet were nailed to the ground. He tried
to close his eyes; he could not. A force unknown
and irresistible compelled him to look. Then Albert
again cried out, "I am innocent; the guilty one is—"
He pronounced some name: the crowd repeated the
name; and he alone did not understand it. Finally
the head of the condemned man fell.
The old man gave a loud cry, and awoke in a cold
perspiration. It took him some time to convince him-
self that nothing was real of this which he had felt
and seen and that he was actually in his own house, in
his own bed: it was only a dream! But dreams some-
times are, they say, warnings from heaven. His im-
agination was in that excited condition that he made
unheard of efforts to recall the name of the criminal
pronounced by Albert. Not succeeding, he got up and
lighted his candle. The darkness made him afraid.
The night peoples itself with phantoms. It was no
longer with him a question of sleep. Beset with these
anxieties, he accused himself most severely, and


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 313
harshly reproached the occupation he had until now so
delighted in. Poor humanity!
He was mad to fix the day when it first came into his
head to seek employment in the Rue Benjamin Frere—
noble hobby, truly, for a man of his age, a good quiet
citizen of Paris, rich and esteemed by all! And to
think that he had been proud of his exploits, that he had
boasted of his cunning, that he had plumed himself on his
keenness of scent, that he had been flattered by that
ridiculous soubriquet "Tirauclair." Old fool! What
had he gained from the business of bloodhound? All
sorts of annoyance, the contempt of the world, without
counting the danger of contributing to the conviction of
an innocent man. Why had he not taken warning by
the case of the little tailor?
Recalling the few satisfactions of the past, and com-
paring them with the present anguish, he resolved that
he would have no more to do with it. Albert once
saved, he would seek some amusement less dangerous,
and more generally appreciated. He would break the
connection of which he was ashamed, and the police
and justice might go on without him.
At last the day, which he had awaited with feverish
impatience, dawned. To pass the time, he dressed
himself slowly, with much care, trying to occupy his
mind with little details, until an hour had passed; du-
ring which he had looked twenty times at the clock, to
see if it had not stopped. In spite of all this delay, it
was not eight o'clock when he caused himself to be an-
nounced at the judge's door, praying him to excuse, on
account of the importance of his business, a visit too
early not to be unwelcome.
Excuses were superfluous. They did not disturb


314 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Monsieur Daburon at eight in the morning. Already
he was at work. He received, with his usual kindness,
the old amateur detective, and even joked with him a
little on his absurdity of the night before. Who would
have thought his nerves so sensitive? Doubtless the
night had brought deliberation. Had he recovered his
old good sense? or had he put his hand on the true
criminal?
This trifling tone in a magistrate, who was accused
of being grave even to a fault, troubled the old man.
Did not this quizzing hide a determination to neglect
all that he could say? He believed it did; and it was
without the least deception that he commenced his
pleading.
He put the case more calmly this time, but with all
the energy of a well-digested conviction. He ad-
dressed himself to the heart, he spoke to the reason;
but, although doubt is essentially contagious, he neither
succeeded in convincing the judge, nor shaking his
opinion. His strongest arguments were of no more
avail against Daburon's ?bsolute conviction than bul-
lets of crumbs of bread against a breastplate. And, at
his failure, he was in no way surprised.
Pere Tabaret had on his side only a subtle theory,
words; Daburon possessed palpable testimony, facts.
And such was this cause, that all the reasons brought
forward by the old man to justify Albert simply reacted
upon him, and confirmed his guilt.
A repulse at the judge's hands had entered too much
into Tabaret's calculations for him to appear troubled
or discouraged. He declared that, for the present, he
would insist no more: he had full confidence in the
wisdom and impartiality of the judge of inquiry. It
sufficed him to have put him on his guard against the


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 315
influences which he himself had unfortunately used in
working up the case.
He was going, he added, to busy himself with hunt-
ing up " new signs." They were only at the beginning
of the inquiry; and they were yet ignorant of very
many things, even of the past life of the Widow Le-
rouge. New facts may come to light. Who knows
what testimony the man with the rings in his ears, who
was now being pursued by Gevrol, may give. All en-
raged within, and longing to injure in some way the'
"idiot magistrate," as he called the judge, Pere Tab-
aret forced himself to be humble and polite. He wished,
he said, to keep track of the examination, and to be
informed of the result of future investigations. He
finally ended by asking permission to communicate with
Albert. He thought his services deserved this slight
favor. He wished an interview of only ten minutes
without witnesses.
Daburon refused this request. He declared, that,
for the present, the prisoner must continue to remain
strictly in solitary confinement.
As a sort of consolation, he added that, in three or
four days, he might perhaps be able to change this de-
cision, provided the motives which caused it no longer
existed.
"Your refusal is cruel, monsieur," said Pere Tab-
aret; "but I understand it, and obey."
That was his only complaint; and he withdrew al-
most immediately, fearing that he could no longer mas-
ter his irritation.
He felt, that, besides the great happiness of saving
an innocent man, compromised by his imprudence, he
should experience an unspeakable delight in avenging
himself upon the stubbornness of the judge.


316 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Three or four days," he muttered, "that is to say,
three or four years for the unfortunate prisoner. He
speaks quite at his ease, this kind magistrate. But
Albert ought to know the truth now."
Yes, Daburon only asked three or four days to wring
a confession from Albert, or at least to make him
change his system of defence.
The difficulty of the prosecution was in not being
able to produce any witness who had seen the prisoner
on the evening of Shrove Tuesday.
One deposition alone to that effect would have so
great weight, that Daburon, upon Tabaret's departure,
turned all his efforts in that direction.
He had great hope yet. It was now only Saturday.
The day of the murder was remarkable enough to fix
people's memories; and there had not been time yet to
set on foot a proper investigation,
i Five of the most experienced spies in the secret ser-
vice were sent to Bougival, supplied with photographs
of Albert. They were to scour the entire country be-
tween Reuil and Jonchere, to hunt, inquire into, and
examine,—to obtain the most precise and the most min-
ute information. The photographs would greatly aid
their efforts. They had orders to show them every-
where and to everybody, and even to leave a dozen in
the place, being furnished with a sufficient number to
do so. It was impossible, that, on an evening when so
many people were about, no one had observed the or-
iginal of the picture either at the station at Reui! or
upon one of the roads which led to Jonchere,—the
highway, or the road by the water's edge.
These arrangements made, the judge of inquiry pro-
ceeded to the palais de justice, and sent for his prisoner.
He had already in the morning received a report, in-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 317
forming him hour by hour of the deeds, gestures, and
utterances of the prisoner, carefully watched. Nothing
in him, the report said, declared the criminal. He ap-
peared sad, but not despairing. He had not cried out,
nor threatened, nor cursed at justice, nor even spoke
of the fatal deed. After having eaten lightly, he went
to the window of his cell, and had there remained
standing for mora than an hour. Then he laid down,
and had quietly gone to sleep.
"What an iron constitution!" thought Daburon,
when the prisoner entered his office.
Albert was no longer the despairing man, who the
night before, dizzy with the multiplicity of charges,
overcome by the rapidity of the blows, had writhed
beneath the gaze of the judge of inquiry, and appeared
ready to faint. Innocent or guilty, his course had been
taken; his face left no doubt of that. His eyes ex-
pressed that resolution, careless of a sacrifice freely
made, and a certain haughtiness which might be taken
for disdain, but which expressed the noble feeling of an
injured man. In him was seen a man self-reliant,
who might be shaken but never overcome by misfor-
tune.
At this countenance, the judge knew that he must
change his mode of attack. He recognized one of those
natures, which attacked, was only provoked to resist-
ance, and, threatened, was only rendered obstinate. Re-
nouncing his efforts to frighten, he attempted to soften
him. It was a hackneyed trick, but one always suc-
cessful, like certain pathetic scenes at theatres. The
criminal who has girt up his energy to sustain the
shock of intimidation, finds himself without defence
against the wheedling of kindness, the greater in pro-
portion to its lack of sincerity. Now tenderness woula


318 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
cause Daburon's triumph. What an avowal he knew
would burst forth in tears! No one knew so well as he
how to touch the cords which vibrate still even in the
most abandoned heart,—honor, love, family.
To Albert, he became kind and friendly, full of the
liveliest compassion. Unfortunate man! how much he
had had to suffer,—he whose whole life had been like
one long enchantment. How every thing had fallen
about him in ruins, at a single blow! Who could have
foreseen all this in the time when he was the one hope
of a wealthy and illustrious house! Calling up the past,
the judge pictured to him the most touching reminis-
cences of his early youth, and stirred up the ashes of
all his extinct affections. Using and abusing all that
he knew of the life of the prisoner, he martyred him::;;:
by the most mournful allusions to Claire. How could
he persist in bearing alone his great misfortune? Had
he no one in the world who would deem it happiness
to share his sufferings? Why this morose silence?
Should he not rather hasten to rescue her whose very
life depended upon his? What was necessary to that
end? But a single word. Then he would be, if not
free, at least returned to the world. His prison would
become an habitable abode, no longer solitary; his
friends would visit him: he might receive whomever he
saw fit.
It was no longer a judge who spoke; it was a father,
who still keeps in his heart indulgence for his son.
Daburon went on. He would for a moment imagine
himself in Albert's position. What would be his con-
dition after the terrible discovery? He would scarcely
dare question himself. He would dwell upon the mur-
der of the Widow Lerouge; he would explain it to him-
self; he would almost excuse it. (Another trap.) It


320 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
spite was evident to all, when, dropping suddenly his
wheedling, he harshly gave the orders to re-conduct the
prisoner to his cell.
"I will compel him to confess," he ground between
his teeth.
Perhaps he regretted those gentle instruments of
investigation of the middle ages, which compelled the
prisoner to say whatever they wanted him to. Never,
thought he, did any one ever meet a prisoner like this.
What could he reasonably hope for from this system
of persistent denial? This obstinacy, absurd in the
presence of absolute proofs, drove the judge into a
rage. Albert, confessing his guilt, would have found
him disposed to pity; denying it, he opposed himself
to an implacable enemy.
It was the very falseness of the situation which misled
and blinded this magistrate, naturally so kind and gen-
erous. Having previously wished Albert innocent, he
now absolutely longed to prove him guilty, and that for
a hundred reasons which he was unable to analyse. He
remembered, too, his having had the Viscount de Com-
marin for a rival, and his having nearly assassinated
him. Had he not repented even with remorse his hav-
ing signed the warrant of arrest, and accepted the duty
of investigation? Tabaret's incomprehensible change
troubled him, too.
All these feelings, combined, inspired Daburon with
a feverish hatred, urging him on in the path which
he had chosen. In future, it would be less the proofs
of Albert's guilt which he sought for than the justifi-
cation of his own conduct to himself as judge. The in-
vestigation rankled, as if it were a personal matter.
In fact, were the prisoner innocent, he would become
inexcusable in his own eyes; and, in proportion as he


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
hunt for a hiding man in the highway; look a little
aside, and you may find him."
Finally he had accosted two who were together in a
cafe at Bougival, and had taken them aside.
"I have him," he said to them. "He is a smart
fellow; he passed by Chatois. Three people have seen
him,—two railway employes, and a third person whose
testimony will be decisive; for she spoke to him. He
was smoking."
Daburon was so angry at this with Pere Tabaret,
that, on the instant he started for Bougival, firmly re-
solved to bring this too zealous man back to Paris and to
give him some occupation more in the interests of jus-
tice. This trip was useless. Tabaret, cabriolet, swift
horse, and the twelve men had all disappeared, or at
least were not to be found.
On returning home, much fatigued and very angry,
the judge of inquiry found the following despatch
from the chief of the detective force; it was brief, and
to the point,—
"Rouen, Sunday.
"The man is found. This evening we start for Paris.
The most valuable testimony. Gevrol."
CHAPTER XV.
Monday morning, at nine o'clock, Daburon was pre-
paring to start for the palais de justice, where he ex-
pected to find Gevrol and his man, and perhaps Pere
Tabaret.
His preparations were nearly made, when his ser-
vant announced that a young lady, accompanied by an-
other more elderly, asked to speak with him.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
323
She declined giving her name, saying, however, that
she would not refuse it, if that was absolutely neces-
sary in order to be received.
"Let her enter," said the judge.
He thought it might be a relation of some one of the
prisoners, with whose business he had been employed be-
fore the Jonchere crime occurred. He determined to
make short work of her, if she were troublesome.
He was standing before his mantel, hunting for an
address in a plate filled with visiting cards. At the
sound of the opening of the door, at the rustling of a
silk dress gliding by the window, he did not take the
trouble to move, did not deign even to turn his head.
He contented himself w.ith merely casting a careless
glance into the mirror.
But he immediately started with a movement of dis-
may, ac if he had seen a ghost. In his confusion, he
dropped the card-plate, which fell noisily to the hearth,
and broke into a thousand pieces.
"Claire," he stammered, "Claire!"
And, as if he feared equally either his being deceived
by an illusion or the actually seeing her whose name he
pronounced, he turned slowly.
It was truly Mademoiselle d'Arlanges.
This young girl, usually so proud and reserved, had
had courage to come to his house alone, or almost
alone; for her governess, whom she had left in the ante
chamber, counted as no one. She was obeying some
powerful emotion; since it made her forget her habitual
timidity.
Never, even in the time when a sight of her was his
greatest happiness, had she appeared more fascinating.
Her beauty, ordinarily veiled by a sweet sadness,
beamed forth, and dazzled him. Her features had an


324 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
animation which he had never seen in them before. In
her eyes, rendered more brilliant by recent tears, even
.now hardly wiped away, shone the noblest resolution.
One could see that she was conscious of having a great
duty to perform, and that she would accomplish it, if
not with pleasure, at least with that simplicity which
in her was heroism.
She advanced calm and dignified, and held out her
hand to the magistrate in that English style that some
ladies can imitate so gracefully.
"We have always been friends, have we not?" she
said with a sad smile.
The magistrate did not dare take the ungloved hand
she held out to him. It was as much as he dared to
touch the end of her fingers,, as if he feared too great
an emotion.
"Yes," he replied indistinctly, "I have been always
devoted to you."
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges sat down in the easy chair,
where, two nights previously Pere Tabaret had planned
Albert's arrest.
"Do you know why I have come?" asked the young
girl.
With a nod, he replied in the affirmative.
He divined her object only too easily; and he was
asking himself, in fact, whether he ought to resist
prayers from such a mouth. What could she ask that he
would have the heart to refuse? Ah, if he had foreseen
this!
"I only knew of this dreadful story yesterday," pur-
sued Claire; "they considered it wise to hide it from
me; and, but for my devoted Schmidt, I should yet be
ignorant of it all. What a night have I passed! I was
at first terrified; but, when they told me that all de-


326 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
no obstacle in the way to the very simple and natural
desire which she had expressed. A formal assurance
given by her ought to be amply sufficient; in a word,
Daburon was to repair every thing. The judge was
silent. He admired this saint-like ignorance of every
thing, this artless and frank confidence which doubted
nothing. She had commenced by wounding him inad-
vertently, it is true; but he quite forgot that.
He was really honest, good as the best, as is proved
from the fact, that, at the moment of unveiling the fatal
truth, he shuddered. He hesitated to pronounce the
words whose breath, like a whirlwind, would overturn
the fragile edifice of this young girl's happiness. Hu-
miliated, despised, he was going to have his revenge;
but it brought him no satisfaction.
"And if I should tell you, mademoiselle," he com-
menced, "that Albert is not innocent—"
She half-raised herself with a protesting gesture. He
continued,—
"If I should tell you he is guilty?" .
"O monsieur!" interrupted Claire, "you cannot
think it."
"I do think it, mademoiselle," continued the magis-
trate in a sad voice; " and I must add that I am morally
certain of it."
Claire looked at the magistrate with profound
amazement. Can this really be he who is speaking to
her? Did she hear him aright? Did she understand?
She was really in doubt. Had he answered seriously?
Was he not abusing her by an unworthy, cruel jest? She
asked herself this with a sort of wildness; for every
thing appeared possible, probable, rather than that
which he had spoken.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 327
I
Not daring to raise his eyes he continued in a tone,
expressive of the sincerest pity,—
"I suffer cruelly for you at this moment, mademoi-
selle; but I have the sad courage to tell you the truth,
and you must summon yours to hear it. Much better
that you should know all from the mouth of a friend.
Summon, then, all your fortitude; strengthen your
noble soul against a most dreadful misfortune. No,
there is no mistake. Justice has not been deceived.
The Viscount de Commarin is accused of an assassina-
tion ; and it is absolutely—absolutely, understand me—
proved that he committed it."
Like a doctor, who pours out drop by drop a danger-
ous medicine, Daburon pronounced slowly, word by
word this last sentence. He watched carefully the re-
sult, ready to cease, if the shock was too great. He did
not suppose that this young girl, timid to excess, with
a sensitiveness almost a disease, would be able to hear
without flinching such a revelation. He expected a
burst of despair, tears, distressing cries. She might
perhaps faint away; and he stood ready to call in the
good Schmidt.
He was deceived. Claire drew herself up full of
energy and valor. The flame of indignation flushed
her cheeks, and dried her tears.
"It is, false," she cried; "and those who say it are
liars. He cannot be; no he cannot be an assassin. If
he were here, and should himself say, 'It is true,' I
should refuse to believe it: I should still cry out, ' It is
false.'"
"He has not yet confessed it," continued the judge;
"but he will confess it: and, if not, there are more
proofs than are needed to convict him. The charges


328 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
against him are as impossible to deny as is the sun
which shines upon us."
"Ah! well," interrupted Mademoiselle d'Arlanges,
in a voice which thrilled his soul, " I assert, I repeat,
that justice is deceived. Yes," she persisted, stopping
a gesture of denial from the judge,—" yes, he is in-
nocent. I am sure of it; and I will proclaim it, even
were the whole world to join with you in accusing him.
Do you not see that I understand him better than he
can understand himself? that my faith in him is ab-
solute, as that which I have in God? that I would doubt
myself before doubting him?"
The judge of inquiry attempted timidly to make an
objection. Claire interrupted him,—
"You force me, then, monsieur," said she, " in order
to overcome you, to forget that I am a young girl, and
that I am not talking to my mother but to a man. For
his sake, I can bear it! It is four years, monsieur, since
we first loved, and told each other of it. Since that
time, I have not kept from him one of my thoughts: he
has not hid from me one of his. For four years, we
have never had a secret between us: he lived in me, as
I lived in him. I alone can say how worthy he is to
be loved; I alone know all that grandeur of soul, no-
bility of thought, generosity of sentiment, from which
you have so easily made an assassin. And I have seen
him, oh! so unhappy, while all the world envied his lot.
He was like me, alone in the world; his father never
loved him. Sustained one by the other, we have passed
many a sad day; and it is at the very moment our trial
was ending that he has become a criminal. Why? tell
me why?"
"Neither the name nor fortune of the Count de
Commarin would descend to him, mademoiselle; and


33Q THE WIDOW LEROUGE
the immensity of the blow which has fallen upon M.
de Commarin. Think of the despair to which he was
driven on leaving you, and the extremities to which it
might lead him! He might have had a moment of
wildness, and have done the deed without perceiving
its enormity. In this way the crime may be explained."
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges' face grew deathly pale,
and betrayed the utmost terror. The judge saw that at
last doubt began to affect her noble and pure thoughts.
"He might, then, have been mad," she murmured.
"Possibly," replied the judge; "but the circum-
stances of the crime denote a well-laid plan. Believe
me, then, mademoiselle, and do not be too confident.
Wait, prayerfully, the issue of this unhappy trial. Lis-
ten to my voice; it is that of a friend. You used to
have in me the confidence a daughter gives to her
father, you have often told me; do not, then, refuse my
advice. Keep silence; wait. Hide your real grief; you
may hereafter regret having exposed it. Young, inex-
perienced, without a mother, alas! you have sadly mis-
placed your affections."
"No, monsieur, no," stammered Claire. "Ah!"
she added, "you speak like the rest of the world,—the
prudent, egotistical world, which I despise and hate."
"Poor child!" continued Daburon, pitiless, even in
his compassion, "unhappy girl! this is your first de-
ception! Nothing can be imagined more terrible. Few
women would know how to bear it. But you are young;
you are brave; your life will not be ruined. Hereafter
you will feel horrified at this crime. There is no wound,
I know by experience, which time does not heal."
Claire tried to grasp what the judge was saying;
but she heard only confused sounds; the meaning en-
tirely escaped her.


332 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges stopped the judge with a
look which flashed the ,most vivid resentment.
"Then," she cried, " you counsel me to abandon him
in his misfortune. All the world deserts him; and
your prudence advises me to act with the world. Men
may act thus, they tell me, when one of their friends is
ruined; but women never. Look about you; however
humiliated, however wretched, however fallen, you
always find the wife near, to sustain and console. When
the last friend has boldly taken to flight, when the last
relation has abandoned you, the wife remains."
The judge regretted his having been carried away a
little too far. Claire's excitement frightened him. He
tried in vain to stop her.
"I may be timid." she continued with increasing en-
ergy; " but I am no coward. I have chosen Albert vol-
untarily from all. Whatever happens to him, I will
never desert him. No: I will never say,' I do not know
this man.' He would have given me half of his pros-
perity, and of his glory. I will share, whether he ex-
pects it or not, half of his shame and misfortune. Be-
tween two, the burden will be less weighty. Strike!
I will cling so closely to him that no blow can touch
him without hurting me, too. You counsel me to for-
get him. Teach me, then, how. I forget him? Could
I, if I wished? But I do not wish it. I love him. It
is no more in my power to cease loving him than it is
to arrest, by the sole effort of my will, the beating of
my heart. He is a prisoner, accused of an assassina-
tion. So be it. I love him. He is a criminal. What
of that? I love him. You condemn, you dishonor
him. Condemned, dishonored. I still love him. You
will send him to prison. I will follow him; and in the
prison, under the convict's dress I will love him still.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 333
Let him fall to the bottom of the abyss. I will fall with
him. My life is his, at his disposal. No, nothing shall
separate us, nothing but death! And, if he must mount
the scaffold, I shall die, I know well, with the blow
which fells him."
Daburon had buried his face in his hands. He would
not for worlds have Claire perceive the emotion with
which he was affected.
"How she loves him!" he thought, "how she loves
him!"
His spirit was sunk in the darkest thoughts. All the
stings of jealousy were rending him.
What would not be his delight, if he were the object of
so irresistible a passion as this which shone before him!
What would he not give in return! He had. too, a
young and ardent soul, a burning thirst for love. But
who would be thus troubled for him? He was
esteemed, respected, perhaps feared, but not loved; and
he never would be. Was he, then, unworthy of it?
Why do so many men pass through life destitute of
love, while others, the vilest beings sometimes, seem to
possess a mysterious power, which charms, seduces,
carries away, which inspires in the object of their af-
fection a blind, impetuous longing to sacrifice herself
for them. Have women, then, no reason nor discern-
ment?
Mademoiselle dArlanges' silence brought the judge
back to himself. He raised his eyes to her. Overcome
by the violence of her enthusiasm, she fell back in her
chair, and breathed with such difficulty that Daburon
feared that she was going to faint. He moved his hand
quickly to the bell upon his desk, to summon aid; but
Claire was quicker still, and stopped him.
"What would you do?" she asked.


334 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"You seemed suffering so," he stammered, "that
I—'*
"It is nothing, monsieur," replied she. "I may seem
weak; but it is nothing. I am very strong, believe me,
very strong. It is true that I suffer, as I never believed
that one could suffer. It is cruel for a young girl to
have to do violence to all her feelings. You ought to
be satisfied, monsieur. I have torn aside all veils; and
you have read even the inmost recesses of my heart.
But I do not regret it; it was for his sake. That which
I do regret is my having lowered myself so far as to
defend him; but he will forgive me that one doubt.
Your persistence startled me so. A man like him does
not need defence; his innocence must be proved; and,
God helping me, I will prove it."
As Claire was half-rising to depart, Daburon de-
tained her by a gesture. In his blindness, he thought
he would be doing wrong to leave this poor young girl
in the slightest way deceived. Having done so much
at the beginning, he persuaded himself that his duty
bade him go on to the end. He said to himself, in all
good faith that thus he should save Claire herself, and
spare her in the future from bitter regrets. The sur-
geon who has commenced a painful operation does not
leave it half-finished because the patient struggles, suf-
fers, and cries out.
"It is painful, mademoiselle,—" he began.
Claire would not let him finish.
"Enough, monsieur," said she; "all that you can
say will be of no avail. I respect your unhappy con-
viction. I ask, in return, the same regard for mine. If
you were truly my friend, I should ask you to aid me
in the task of saving him, to which I shall devote my-
self ; but you, doubtless, are not willing."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 335
Claire seemed to be continually irritating the un-
happy magistrate. With her woman's instinct, she had
arrived at the same result as Pere Tabaret with his
logic. Women neither analyse nor reason: they feel
and think. Instead of discussing, they affirm; and
here, perhaps, arises their superiority. As for Claire,
Daburon did not feel that she was his enemy; and yet'
she treated him like one.
The judge of inquiry resented strongly this injury.
Annoyed by his scruples of conscience on one side, and
by his convictions on the other, tossed about between
duty and feelings, embarrassed by the harness of his
profession, he was incapable of simple reflection. For
three days, he had acted like a stubborn child. Why
this obstinacy, which would not admit the possibility of
Albert's innocence? Investigations in all cases have
the same aim. But he, usually favorable to a prisoner,
would not admit for a moment that there might be a
mistake in this case.
"If you knew the proofs which I have in my hand,
mademoiselle," he said in a cold tone, which expressed
his determination not to give way to anger, " if I should
show them to you, you would have no longer a doubt."
"Speak, monsieur," cried Claire imperiously.
"You wish it, mademoiselle? Very well; I will give
you in detail all the charges made by justice. I will
explain every thing; you shall know all. But no; why
should I harass you with all the proofs? There is
one which alone is decisive. The murder was commit-
ted on the evening of Shrove Tuesday; and the pris-
oner cannot give an account of what he did on that
evening. He went out, however, and returned home
about two o'clock in the morning, his clothes soiled antf
torn, his gloves frayed."


336 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Oh! enough, monsieur enough!" broke in Claire,
whose eyes beamed once more with happiness. "You
say it was on Shrove Tuesday evening?"
"Yes, mademoiselle."
"Ah! I was sure," she cried triumphantly. "I
told you truly that he could not be the criminal."
She raised her hands; and, from the movement of
her lips, it was evident that she was praying.
The expression of the most perfect trust, represented
by some of the Italian painters, illuminated her beauti-
ful face; while she gave thanks to God in a burst of
thankfulness.
The magistrate was so disconcerted, that he forgot to
admire her. He awaited an explanation.
"Well?" he asked impatiently.
"Monsieur," replied Claire, " if that is your strongest
proof, it exists no longer. Albert passed the entire
evening you speak of with me."
"With you?" stammered the judge.
"Yes, with me, at my house."
Daburon was stunned. Was he dreaming? His arms
fell.
"What!" he exclaimed, "the viscount was at your
house? And your grandmother, your governess, your
servants, did they all see him and speak to him?"
"No, monsieur; he came and went away in secret.
He wished no one to see him; he desired to be alone
with me."
"Ah!" said the judge with a sigh of relief.
The sigh was significant. It meant, "It's all clear,
—only too evident. She is determined to save him, at
the risk even of compromising her reputation. Poor
girl! The idea must have just occurred to her."
This "Ah!" was interpreted very differently by


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 337
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges. She thought that Daburon
was astonished at her consenting to receive Albert.
"Your surprise is an insult, monsieur," said she.
"Mademoiselle!"
"A daughter of my family, monsieur, may receive
her fiance, without danger of any thing occurring for
which she should blush."
She said this, and at the same time was red with
shame, grief, and anger. She began to hate Daburon.
"I had no such insulting thought as you imagine,
mademoiselle," said the magistrate. "I was only won-
dering why Monsieur de Commarin went secretly to
your house, when his approaching marriage gives him
the right to present himself openly, at all hours. I
wondered still further, how, on such a visit, he could
get his clothes in the condition in which we found
them."
"That is to say, monsieur," replied Claire bitterly,
"that you doubt my word."
"The circumstances are such, mademoiselle,—"
"You accuse me, then, of falsehood, monsieur?
Why, were we criminals, we should not descend to
justifying ourselves; we should never pray nor ask for
pardon."
The haughty, contemptuous tone of Mademoiselle
d'Arlanges, could only anger the judge. How harshly
she treated him! And simply because he would not
consent to be her dupe.
"Above all, mademoiselle," he answered severely, " I
am a magistrate; and I have a duty to perform. A
crime has been committed. Every thing tells me that
Albert de Commarin is the guilty man. I arrest him;
I examine him; and I find against him overwhelming
proofs. You come and tell me that they are false; thaf


338 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
is not enough. As long as you addressed me as a friend,
you have found me kind and gentle. Now it is the
judge to whom you speak: and it is the judge who re
plies, ' Prove it.'"
"My word, monsieur,—"
"Prove it!"
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges arose slowly, throwing
upon the judge a look filled with astonishment and sus-
picion.
"Shall you, then, be glad, monsieur," she asked;
"to find Albert guilty? Will it give you pleasure to
convict him? Do you hate this prisoner, whose fate
is in your hands? They told me the truth, then. Can
you talk of impartiality? Do not certain memories
weigh heavily in the scale? Are you sure that you are
not armed with the law, revenging yourself upon a ri-
val?"
"This is too much," murmured the judge,—" this
is too much."
"Do you know the unusual, the dangerous position
we are in at this moment? One day, I remember, you
declared your love for me. It appeared to me sincere
and honest; it touched me. I was obliged to refuse
you, because I loved another; and I pitied you. Now
that other is accused of assassination; and you are his
judge, and I between you stand praying for him. In
accepting the duty of investigation, you seemed to de-
clare in his favor; and yet they say you are against
him."
Claire's every word fell upon Daburon's heart like a
blow on his face.
Was it really she who was speaking? Whence came
this sudden boldness, which made her recall all those
words which found an echo in his heart?


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 339
"Mademoiselle," said he, " your grief carries you be-
yond yourself. From you alone could I pardon what
you have just said. Your ignorance of this matter
makes you unjust. If you think that Albert's fate de-
pends upon my pleasure, you deceive yourself. To con-
vince me is nothing; it is necessary to convince others.
That I should believe you is all very natural; but what
weight will others attach to your testimony, when you
come before them with a story, true,—most true, I
am confident,—but highly improbable."
Tears came into Claire's eyes.
"If I have unjustly offended you, monsieur," she
said, "pardon me: my unhappiness makes me forget
myself."
"You cannot offend me, mademoiselle," replied the
magistrate. "I have already told you that I am de-
voted to your service."
"Then, monsieur, help me to prove the truth of what
I have said. I will tell you every thing."
Daburon was fully convinced that Claire was seeking
to deceive him; but her boldness astonished him.
He wondered what fable she was concocting."
"Monsieur, began Claire, " you know what obstacles
have stood in the way of my marriage with Albert. The
Count de Commarin did not wish me for a daughter-in-
law, because I was poor, because I possessed nothing.
It took Albert five years to triumph over his father's
objections. Twice the count yielded; twice he recalled
the consent which he said had been extorted from him.
At last, about a month ago, he gave his consent of his
own accord. But these hesitations, delays, refusals, had
deeply hurt my grandmamma. You know her sensitive
character; and in this case, I must confess she , was
right. After the wedding day had been fixed, the mar-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
quise declared that we should not be compromised and
laughed at for any apparent haste in contracting so ad-
vantageous a marriage, as we had never before been
accused of ambition. She decided, therefore, that, until
the publication of the banns, Albert should only be ad-
mited into the house every other day, for two hours in
the afternoon, and that in her presence. We could not
move her from this determination. Such was the state
of affairs, when, on Sunday morning, a note came to
me from Albert. He told me that pressing business
would prevent his coming, although that was his regu-
lar day. What could have happened to keep him away?
t feared some evil. The next day I waited, impatient,
distracted, until his valet brought a note for me to
Schmidt. In that letter, monsieur, Albert entreated me
to grant him a secret interview. It was necessary, he
wrote, that he should have a long conversation with me
alone, and at once. Our whole future, he added, de-
pended upon this interview. He left me to choose the
day and hour, urging me to confide in no one. I did
not hesitate. I sent him word to meet me on Tuesday
evening, at the little garden gate, which opened into an
unoccupied street. To notify me of his presence, he
was to knock just as nine o'clock sounded from the
tower of Les Invalides. I knew that my grandmother
had invited a number of her friends for that evening;
and I thought that, by pretending a headache, I might
retire early, and so be free. I knew, also, that Madame
d'Arlanges would keep Schmidt with her."
"Excuse me, mademoiselle," interrupted Daburon,
"what day did you write to Albert?"
"Tuesday."
"Can you fix the hour?"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"I must have sent the letter between two and three
o'clock."
"Thanks, mademoiselle. Go on, I beseech you."
"All my anticipations," continued Claire, "were
realized. I escaped in the evening; and I descended
to the garden a little before the appointed time. I had
procured a key to the little gate; and I tried to open
it. Unfortunately, I could not make it turn, the lock
was so rusty. I exerted all my strength in vain. I
was in despair, when nine o'clock sounded. At the third
stroke, Albert knocked. I told him of the accident;
and I threw him the key, that he might try and unlock
the door. He tried in vain. I then begged him to post-
pone our interview until the next day. He replied that
it was impossible, that what he had to say admitted of
no delay; that, during the three days that he had hes-
itated about confiding in me, he had suffered martyr-
dom, and that he could endure it no longer. We were
speaking, you understand, through the gate. At last,
he declared that he would climb over the wall. I begged
him not to do it, fearing an accident. It was very high,
you see; and the top was set with pieces of broken
glass, and the acacia branches stretched above like a
hedge. But he laughed at my fears, and said that, un-
less I made a vigorous resistance, he was going to scale
the wall. I dared not say any thing; and he risked
it. Fortunately, he was very active, and got over with-
out injury. He had come, monsieur, to tell me of the
misfortune which had befallen him. We were now
seated upon the little bank, you know, opposite the
grove; then, when the rain fell, we took refuge in the
summer house. It was after midnight when Albert left
me, quiet and happy. He went back in the same man-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
my office, have him sought for: he will not be a great
way off, as he is waiting for me. Go quick!"
Daburon then turned to Claire.
"Have you kept the letter, mademoiselle, in which
Albert asked for this interview?"
"Yes, monsieur, I ought to have it with me."
She arose, felt in her pocket, and drew out a much
rumpled piece of paper.
"Here it is!"
The judge of inquiry took it. A suspicion crossed
him. This compromising letter was quite conveniently
in Claire's pocket; and yet young girls do not usually
thus expose requests for interviews. At a glance, he
ran over the ten lines of the note.
"No date," he muttered, "no stamp,—nothing at
all."
Claire did not hear him; she was racking her brain
to find proofs of the interview.
"Monsieur," said she suddenly, "it often happens,
that, when we wish to be, and believe ourselves alone,
we are nevertheless observed. Summon, I beseech you,
all of my grandmamma's servants, and inquire if any
of them saw Albert that night."
"Inquire of your servants! Are you not dreaming,
mademoiselle?"
"What, monsieur? You fear that I shall be com-
promised. What of that, if he is only freed?"
Daburon could not help admiring her.
What sublime devotion in this young girl, whether
she spoke the truth or not! He could understand her
violence of an hour ago, now that he knew her charac-
ter so well.
"That is not all," she added; "the key to the little


346 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
kind, since you are our friend. Do you wish me to go
down on my knees?"
The judge had only time to extend his arms, and pre-
vent her.
He was choking with emotion, unhappy man!
Ah! how much he envied the prisoner's lot!
"That which you ask of me is impossible, mademoi-
selle," said he tenderly, " impracticable, upon my honor.
Ah! if it depended upon me alone, I should not be
able, even were he guilty, to see you weep, and to re-
sist."
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges, so firm up to this time,
could no longer restrain her sobs.
"Unhappy man! " she cried, " he is suffering; he is
in prison. I am free; and yet I can do nothing for
him. Great heaven! inspire me with accents to touch
the heart of men! At their feet I will cast myself for
pardon."
She suddenly stopped, surprised at having uttered
such a word.
"Pardon!" she repeated fiercely; "he has no need
of pardon. Why am I only a woman? Can I not find
one man who will aid me? Yes," she said after a mo-
ment's reflection, " there is one man who owes himself
to Albert; since he it was who put him in this position,
—the Count de Commarin. He is his father, and has
vet abandoned him. Ah, well! I will remind him that
he has a son still."
The magistrate arose to see her to the door; but she
had already disappeared, taking with her the good
Schmidt.
Daburon, more dead than alive, sank back in his
chair. His eyes filled with tears.
"What a noble woman she is!" he murmured, "Ah!


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 347
I made no vulgar choice. I had divined and under-
stood all these good qualities."
He had never loved her so much; and he felt that
he should never be consoled for not having won her
love in return. But, in the midst of his meditations, a
sudden thought passed like a flash across his brain.
Had Claire spoken the truth? Had she not been
playing a role, assumed to deceive him? No, surely no!
But she might have been deceived,—might have been
the dupe of some skilful trick.
Pere Tabaret's prediction was now realized.
Tabaret had said, " Look out for an unobjectionable
alibi."
How could he show the falsity of this one, planned in
advance, affirmed by Claire, who was herself deceived?
How could he foil a plan, so well laid that the pris-
oner was able without danger to await certain results,
with his hands bound, and without himself moving in
the matter?
And yet, if Claire's story were true, and Albert inno-
cent.
The judge struggled in the midst of inextricable
difficulties, without a plan, without an idea.
He arose.
"Oh!" he said in a loud voice, as though encourag-
ing himself, " at the palais, all will be unravelled."
CHAPTER XVI.
Daburon had been surprised at Claire's visit.
M. de Commarin was still more so, when his valet de
chambre whispered to him that Mademoiselle d'Ar-
langes asked a moment's conversation with him.


348 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Daburon had let a handsome card-plate fall; M. de
Commarin, who was at breakfast, let his knife fall.
Like the judge he exclaimed,—
"Claire!"
He hesitated to receive her, fearing a painful and
disagreeable scene.
She had had, he knew, very slight affection for him,
who had for so long repulsed her with such obstinacy.
What could she want with him? To inquire about
Albert, of course. And what could he reply?
She would probably have some nervous attack or
other; and her system, as well as his, would be dis-
turbed.
However, he thought of the great grief she must have
experienced; and he pitied her.
He reflected, that it would be cruel, as well as un-
worthy his character, to keep himself from her who was
to have been his daughter,—the Viscountess de Com-
marin.
He sent a message, asking her to wait one instant in
the little salon on the ground floor.
He did not keep her long, his appetite having been
destroyed by the announcement of her presence. He
was prepared for any thing disagreeable.
When he entered, Claire bowed to him with one of
those graceful, yet highly dignified bends, which dis-
tinguished the Marquise d'Arlanges.
"Monsieur," she began —
"You come, do you not, my poor child, to obtain
news of the unhappy boy?" asked M. de Commarin.
He had interrupted Claire, wishing to go straight to
the point, in order to get it the more quickly over.
"No, monsieur," replied the young girl; "I come, on
the contrary, to bring you news. Albert is innocent."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 349
The count looked at her most attentively, persuaded
that grief had affected her reason; but her madness in
this instance was very quiet.
"I have never doubted it," continued Claire; "but
now I have the most positive proofs."
"Do you feel sure of what you have advanced?"
inquired the count, whose eyes betrayed his doubt
.
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges understood his thoughts;
her interview with Daburon had given her experi-
ence.
"I advance nothing which is not of the utmost accu-
racy," she replied, "and easily proved. I have just
come from the judge of inquiry, Monsieur Daburon,
who is one of my grandmamma's friends; and, after
what I have told him, he is persuaded that Albert is
innocent."
"He told you that, Claire!" exclaimed the count.
"My child, are you sure, are you not deceiving your-
self?"
"No, monsieur. I told him something, of which the
world is ignorant, and of which Albert, who is a gen-
tleman, could not speak; I told him that Albert passed
with me, in my grandmamma's garden, all that even-
ing when the crime was committed. He had asked an
interview of me—"
"But your word will not be sufficient."
"There are proofs of it which Justice has by this
time."
"Heavens! Is it really possible?" cried the count,
who was beside himself.
"Ah, monsieur!" said Mademoiselle d'Arlanges bit-
terly, " you are like the judge; you thought it impossi-
ble. You are his father, and suspected him. You
could not have known him, then. You abandoned him.


350 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
without trying to defend him. Ah, I never doubted
him!"
We can easily be induced to believe true what we
are anxiously longing for. M. de Commarin was not
difficult to convince. Without reasons, without dis-
cussion, he put faith in Claire's assertions. He shared
her convictions, without asking whether they were wise
or prudent.
Yes, he had been overcome by the positiveness of the
judge: he had acknowledged the improbability of his
son's innocence; and he had bowed his head. One
word from this young girl restored him. Albert inno-
cent? This thought descended upon his heart like dew
from heaven.
Claire appeared to him a messenger bringing sun-
shine and hope.
During the last three days, he had discovered how
great his affection for Albert was. He had loved him
tenderly; for he had never been able to discard him,
in spite of his frightful suspicions about his pater-
nity.
For three days, the remembrance of the crime in-
puted to the unhappy boy, the thought of the punish-
ment which awaited him, had nearly killed him; and
now he was innocent!
No more shame, no more scandal, no more stains
upon the escutcheon; the name of Commarin would no
longer resound before the tribunals.
"But now, mademoiselle," demanded the count,
"are they going to release him?"
"Alas! monsieur, I demanded that they should at
once place him at liberty. It is just, is it not? since
he is not guilty? But the judge only replied that it
was not possible; that he was not the master; that


352 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"Let us try, at least, monsieur," persisted Claire.
"Let us seek out judges, generals, ministers. Only
lead me to them. I will speak; and you shall see if
we do not succeed."
The count took Claire's little hands between his own,
and held them a moment pressing them with paternal
tenderness.
"Brave girl!" he cried; "you are a noble, cour-
ageous woman, Claire. Good blood never fails. I
should not have known you. Yes, you shall be my
daughter; and you shall be happy together,—Albert
and you. But we mustn't rush about everywhere, like
wild geese. We need some one to point out whom we
should address,—some guide, advocate, notary. Ah!"
he cried, " I have it,—Noel."
Claire raised her eyes to the count's in surprise.
"He is my son," replied M. de Commarin, evidently
embarrassed,—" my other son, Albert's brother,—the
best and worthiest of men," he added, repeating quite
appropriately a phrase already used by Daburon. "He
is an advocate; he knows all about the palais; he will
guide us."
Noel's name, thus thrown into the midst of this con-
versation so full of hope, oppressed Claire's heart.
The count perceived her affright.
"Don't feel anxious, dear child," he said. "Noel is
good; and I will tell you more, loves Albert. Do not
shake your head so; Noel told me himself, on this very
spot, that he did not believe Albert guilty. He de-
clared that he intended doing every thing to dispel the
fatal mistake, and that he would be his advocate."
These assertions did not seem to reassure the young
girl. She said to herself, " What has this Noel accom-
plished for Albert?" She could think of nothing.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 355
man, an officer of the legion of honor, whose carriage
and figure indicated the veteran.
They were conversing near the mantel; and the ar-
rival of strangers appeared to astonish them.
In bowing, in response to M. de Commarin's and
Claire's salute, they seemed to inquire their business;
but the hesitation was brief: the soldier offered Made-
moiselle d'Arlanges a chair.
The count saw that his presence was inopportune;
and he felt called upon to introduce himself, and ex-
plain his visit.
"You will excuse me, messieurs," said he, "if I am
inconsiderate. I need not tell you, that, in asking per-
mission to await Noel, I have the most pressing need
of seeing him. I am the Count de Commarin."
At this name, the old soldier left the chair whose
back he still held, and assumed all the haughtiness of
his profession. An angry light flashed in his eyes; and
he made a threatening gesture. His lips moved, as if
he were about to speak; but he restrained himself, and
retired, his head bowed, to the window.
Neither the count nor the others remarked these vari-
ous movements; but they did not escape Claire.
While Mademoiselle d'Arlanges sat down, confused,
the count, also much embarrassed at his position, ap-
proached the priest, and in a low voice asked,—
"What is, I beseech you, Monsieur l'Abbe, Madame
Gerdy's condition?"
The doctor, who had a sharp ear, heard the question,
and approached quickly.
It was very pleasant to speak to a personage as cele-
brated as the Count de Commarin, and to become ac-
quainted with him.


356 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"I fear, monsieur," he said," that she cannot live
another day."
The count pressed his hand against his forehead, as
though he had felt a sudden pain. He hesitated to
inquire further.
After a moment of chilling silence, he resolved to
go on.
"Does she recognize her friends?" he murmured.
"No, monsieur. Since last evening, however, there
has been a great change. She was very uneasy all
last night: she had moments of fierce delirium. About
an hour ago, we thought she was recovering her senses;
and we sent for the priest."
"Very useless, though," put in the priest; "it is a
sad misfortune. Her reason is quite gone, poor woman!
I have known her ten years. I have seen her nearly
every week; and I never knew a more excellent
woman."
"She must suffer dreadfully," said the doctor.
Almost on the instant, and as if to bear out the doc-
tor's words, they heard stifled cries from the next room,
the door of which was open.
"Did you hear?" exclaimed the count, trembling
from head to foot.
Claire understood nothing of this strange scene.
Dark presentiments oppressed her; she felt as though
she were enveloped by an atmosphere of evil. She grew
frightened, and drew near the count.
"Is she really there?" asked M. de Commarin.
"Yes, monsieur," harshly answered the old soldier
who had come near, " she is."
At another time, the count would have noticed the
soldier's tone, and have resented it. Now, he did not
even raise his eyes. He remained insensible to every


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 357
thing. Was she not there, two steps from him? His
thoughts were in the past; it seemed to him but yes-
terday that he had quitted her for the last time.
"I should much like to see her," he said timidly.
"That is impossible," replied the old soldier.
"Why?" stammered the count.
"At least, Monsieur de Commarin," replied the sol-
dier, " let her die in peace."
The count started, as if he had been struck. His
eyes encountered those of the veteran's; they fell like
a criminal's before his judge.
"Nothing need prevent monsieur's entering Madame
Gerdy's room," put in the doctor, who purposely saw
nothing of all this. "She would probably not notice
his presence; and if—"
"Oh, she would perceive nothing!" said the priest.
"I have just spoken to her, taken her hand: she is still
insensible."
The old soldier reflected deeply.
"Enter," said he at last to the count; "perhaps it is
God's will."
The count tottered, so that the doctor sprang forward
to assist him. He gently pushed him away.
The doctor and the priest entered with him; Claire
and the old soldier remained at the threshold of the
door, opposite the bed.
The count took three or four steps, and was obliged
to stop. He wished, but could not go further.
Could this dying woman really be Valerie?
He had to tax his memory severely: nothing in those
withered features, nothing in that troubled face, re-
called the beautiful, the adored Valerie of his youth.
He did not even know her.
But she knew him, or rather divined, felt his pres-


358 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
ence. Moved by a supernatural force, she raised
herself, exposing her shoulders and emaciated arms.
With a violent gesture, she pushed away the ice from
her forehead, throwing back her still plentiful hair,
bathed with perspiration, which fell upon the pillow.
"Guy!" she cried. "Guy!"
The count trembled all over..
He stood more immovable than those unhappy peo-
ple, who, according to popular belief, when struck by
lightning remain standing, but crumble into dust if
touched.
He did not perceive that which immediately struck
all others present,— the transformation in the sick
woman. Her contracted features relaxed: a celestial
joy spread over her face; and her eyes, hollowed
by disease, assumed an expression of infinite tender-
ness.
"Guy," said she in a voice heart-breaking by its
sweetness, "you have come at last! How long, O my
God! I have waited for you! You cannot think what
I have suffered in your absence. I was dying of grief,
without one hope of seeing you again. They have kept
you from me. Who, who was it? Your relations still?
Cruel, cruel! Did you not tell them that no one could
love you here below as I did? No; that was not it.
I, I forget. I,—were you not angry when you left me?
Your friends wished to separate us; they said that I
drew you away from her. Who have I injured that
I should have so many enemies? They envied my hap-
piness; and we were so happy! But you did not be-
lieve the wicked calumny: you scorned it; for are you
not here?"
The nun, who had risen on seeing so rrnr.y enter the
sick room, now opened her eyes with astonishment.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 359
"I betray you?" continued the dying woman, ap-
parently wild at the thought. "Was I not yours, your
own, heart and soul? To me you were every thing;
and there was nothing I could expect or hope from an-
other which you had not already given me. Was I not
yours, body and soul, from the first? I never hesitated
to give myself entirely to you; I felt that I was born
for you. Guy, can you forget that? I was working
for a lace-maker, and was barely earning a living. You
told me that you were a poor student; and I felt that
you were depriving yourself for my sake. You wished
to fit up our little cottage at St. Michael. It was lovely,
with its fresh paper all covered with flowers, which we
ourselves hung. How delightful it was! From the
window, there was a view of the great trees at the Tuil-
eries; and, by a little imagination, we could see the
setting sun through the arches of the bridge. Oh, those
happy times I The first time that we walked out into
the country together, one Sunday, you brought me
a more beautiful dress than I had ever dreamed of, and
boots so tiny that it was a shame to walk in them. But
you had deceived me; you were not a poor student.
One day, in taking my work home, I met you in an
elegant carriage, behind which rode tall footmen in a
livery covered with gold. I could not believe my eyes.
That evening you told me the truth, that you were a
noble of great wealth. O my darling! why did you
tell me?"
Had she her reason, or was this delirium which was
speaking.
Great tears rolled down the wrinkled face of the
Count de Commarin; and the doctor and priest won-
dered at this sad spectacle of an old man weeping like
a child.


360 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Last evening only, the count had thought his heart
dead; and now this voice, sinking into his heart, was
sufficient to recall the fresh, powerful feelings of his
youth. How many years had passed away since!
"Then," continued Madame Gerdy, "we left St.
Michael. You wished it; and I obeyed, in spite of my
apprehensions. You told me, that, to please you, I
must resemble the great ladies. You provided teachers
for me; for I had been so ignorant that I scarcely knew
how to sign my name. Do you remember the queer
spelling in my first letter? Ah Guy, if you had only
been really a poor student! When I knew that you
were so rich, I lost my simplicity, my thoughtlessness,
my gayety. I feared that you would think me covetous,
—that you would imagine that your fortune influenced
my love. Men, who, like you, have millions, must be
very unhappy. They must be always doubting and full
of suspicions; they can never be sure whether it is
themselves or their gold which is loved: and this makes
them defiant, jealous, cruel. Oh, my dearest! why did
we leave our little cottage? There we were happy.
Why did you not leave me always where you had
found me? Did you not know that the sight of hap-
piness irritates mankind? If we had been wise, we
should have hid our happiness like a crime. You
thought to raise me; you only sunk me lower. You
were proud of our love; you published it abroad.
Vainly I asked you in mercy to leave me in obscurity,
and unknown. Soon the whole town knew that I was
your mistress. It was reported, in your own circles,
that you were ruining yourself for me. How I blushed
at the flaunting luxury you thrust upon me! You
were satisfied, because my beauty became celebrated;
I wept because my shame became so, too. Tjey talked


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 361
about me, as about women who make their lovers com-
mit the greatest follies. Was not my name in the
papers? And it was through the same papers that I
learned of your approaching marriage. Unhappj
woman! I should have fled from you; but I had not
the courage. I resigned myself, without an effort, to
the most humiliating, the most shameful of lots. You
were married; and I continued your mistress. Oh,
what anguish I suffered during that terrible evening!
I was alone in my own house, in that room so asso-
ciated with you; and you were marrying another. I
said to myself, 'At this moment, a pure, noble young
girl is giving herself to him.' I said again, 'What
oaths is that mouth, which has so often pressed my lips,
now taking?' Often since that dreadful misfortune,
I have asked the good God what crime I had committed
that I should be so terribly punished? This was the
crime. I continued your mistress, and your wife died.
I had only seen her once, and then scarcely for a mo-
ment; but she looked at you; and I knew that she
loved as only I could. And, Guy, it was our love that
killed her!"
She stopped exhausted: but none of the bystanders
moved. They listened breathlessly, and waited with
feverish emotion for her to resume.
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges had not strength to re-
main standing; she fell upon her knees, and pressed
her handkerchief to her mouth to keep back her sobs.
Was not this Albert's mother?
The worthy sister was alone unmoved; she had seen,
she said to herself, many such deliriums before. She
understood absolutely nothing of the scene.
"These people are very foolish," she thought, "to
pay so much attention to the ramblings of insanity."


362 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
She thought she had more sense than the others. Ap-
proaching the bed she began to cover the sick woman.
"Come, madame," said she, " cover yourself, or you
will catch cold."
"Sister!" remonstrated the doctor a/id the priest at
the same moment.
"Jupiter Ammon!" cried the soldier, "let her
speak."
"Who," continued the sick woman, unconscious of
all that was passing about her,—" who can tell what I
have endured? Oh, the wretches! They set spies
upon me; they discovered that an officer came fre-
quently to see me. That officer was my brother, my
dear Louis. When he was eighteen years old, getting
no work, he enlisted, saying to mother, that there would
now be one mouth less in the family. He was a good
soldier; and the officers always liked him. He joined
his regiment: he taught himself; and he gradually rose
in rank. He was promoted to lieutenant, captain, and
finally became major. Louis always loved me; but I
seldom saw him. He was a non-commissioned officer
when he first knew that I had a lover; and he was so
enraged that I feared he would never forgive me. But
he did forgive me, saying that my constancy in my
wrong was its only excuse. Ah, my friend, he was
more jealous of your honor than you yourself! He
came to see me in secret, because I had placed him in
the unhappy position of blushing for his sister. My
name never passed his lips. Could a brave soldier con-
fess that his sister was the mistress of a count? That
it might not be known, I took the utmost precautions,
but alas! only to make you doubt me. When Louis
knew what was said, he wished, in his blind rage, to
challenge you; and then I was obliged to prove to him


364 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
foresee the future; I see my son coming to me, justly
angered. What does he say? Great heaven! Oh,
those letters, those letters, sweet memories of our love!
My son, he threatens me! He strikes me! Ah, help!
A son strike his mother! Tell no one of it: don't let it
ever be known. God, what torture! He knows well
that I am his mother. He pretends not to believe me.
This is too much! Guy, pardon, oh, my dearest! I
had not power to resist, nor the courage to obey you."
At this moment the door leading to the stairway
opened, and Noel appeared, pale as usual, but calm and
composed.
The dying woman saw him; and it affected her like
an electric shock.
A terrible trembling shook her whole body; her eyes
grew inordinately large; her hair seemed to stand on
end. She raised herself on her elbows, pointed at
Noel and in a loud voice exclaimed,—
"Assassin!"
Convulsively she fell back on the bed. They
hastened forward: she was dead.
A deep silence prevailed.
Such is the majesty of death, and the terror which ac-
companies it, that, before it, even the strongest and
most skeptical bow their heads.
For an instant, passions and interests are forgotten.
Involuntarily we are drawn together, when some
mutual friend breathes his last in our presence.
All the bystanders were deeply moved by this painful
scene, this last confession, wrested from a delirious and
unhappy woman.
But the last word uttered by Madame Gerdy, "As-
sassin 1 " surprised no one.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 365
All, with the exception of the nun, knew of the un-
happy accusation which had been made against Albert.
To him they applied the malediction of the unfor-
tunate mother.
Noel appeared to totter. Kneeling near the bedside
of her who had been as a mother to him, he took one
of her hands, and pressed it close to his lips.
"Dead!" he groaned; "she is dead!"
By his side, the nun and the priest knelt, and repeated
in a low voice the prayers for the dead.
They implored God to shed his peace and mercy on
this departed soul.
They begged for a little happiness in heaven for her
who had suffered so much on this earth.
Falling into a chair, his head back, the Count de
Commarin was more overwhelmed, more livid, than this
dead woman, his old love, once so beautiful.
Claire and the doctor pressed toward him.
They undid his cravat, and opened the collar of his
shirt, or he would have suffocated.
With the help of the old soldier, whose red, tearful
eye told of suppressed grief, they moved the count's
chair to the half-opened window for a little air. Three
days before, this scene would have killed him.
But the heart grows hardened by misfortune, as
hands by labor.
"Tears would relieve him," whispered the doctor to
Claire.
M. de Commarin gradually recovered, and, with
clearness of thought, returned the intensity of suffer-
ing.
The prostration was followed by great struggl ,s in
his mind. Nature seemed striving to sustain the mis-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 369
CHAPTER XVII.
Troubled and distressed by the revelations of Ma-
demoiselle d'Arlanges, Daburon was ascending the
stairway that led to the gallery of the judges of inquiry,
when he was met by Pere Tabaret, The sight pleased
him; and so he called out,—
"Monsieur Tabaret!"
But the old fellow, who showed every sign of the
most intense agitation, was scarcely disposed to stop,
or to lose a single minute.
"You must excuse me," he said, saluting him, " but I
am expected at home."
"I hope, however—"
"Oh, he is innocent," interrupted Pere Tabaret. "I
have already some proofs; and before three days—
But you are going to see Gevrol's man with the rings in
his ears. He is very acute, is this Gevrol; I have mis-
judged him."
And without listening to another word he hurried on,
jumping down three steps at a time, at the risk of
breaking his neck.
Daburon, disappointed, also hastened on.
In the gallery, before his office door, on a bench of
rough wood, sat Albert under the charge of a garde de
Paris.
"You will be summoned immediately," said the
judge to the prisoner, on opening the door.
In the office, Constant was talking with a little man
of a sorry appearance, who might be taken, from his
dress, for an inhabitant of the Batignoles, even without
the enormous false pin which shone in his cravat, and
which betrayed the detective.


372 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
the judge; "because Justice, as I have already said, is
ignorant of nothing that it is important for it to know,"
He sought Albert's eye, met it, and said slowly,—
"I have seen Mademoiselle Claire d'Arlanges.
At that name, the prisoner's features, restrained by a
firm resolve not to betray himself, relaxed.
The immense sensation of delight which he must
have felt can easily be imagined. He was like a man
who escapes by a miracle from an imminent danger
which he had despaired of avoiding.
But he made no reply.
"Mademoiselle d'Arlanges," continued the judge,
"has told me where you were on Tuesday evening."
Albert still hesitated.
"I am not setting a trap for you," added the judge.
"I give you my word of honor. She has told me all,
you understand?"
This time Albert decided to speak.
His explanations corresponded almost exactly with
Claire's, —not one detail more. Henceforth, doubt was
impossible.
Mademoiselle d'Arlanges' reliability had not been
shaken. Either Albert was innocent, or she was his ac-
complice.
Could she knowingly be the accomplice of this dread-
ful crime? No; she could not even be suspected of it.
But now where to find the assassin?
For, in the sight of Justice, when a crime is once
discovered, there must be a criminal.
"You see, monsieur," said the judge severely to Al-
bert, "you did deceive me. You risked your life,
monsieur, and what is still more serious, you exposed
me, you exposed Justice, to a most deplorable mistake.
Why did you not tell me the truth?"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 375
"You are, then, some relation of Claudine Le-
rouge?"
"Her husband, monsieur."
What, the husband of the victim, alive, and the police
ignorant of even his existence!
That was Daburon's first thought.
What, then, does this wonderful progress in inven-
tion acomplish?
To-day, precisely as twenty years ago, when Justice
is in doubt, it requires the same inordinate loss of time
and money to obtain the slightest information.
On Friday, they had written to inquire about Clau-
dine's past life; it was now Monday, and no reply had
arrived.
And yet photography was in existence, and the elec-
tric telegraph. They had at their service a thousand
means, formerly unknown; and they made no use of
them.
"All the world," said the judge, "believed her a
widow. She herself pretended to be one."
"Yes; it was an arrangement between ourselves. I
told her that I would have nothing more to do with
her."
"Indeed? Well, you know, I suppose, that she is
dead,—that she was the victim of a dreadful crime?"
"The officer who brought me here told me of it, mon-
sieur," replied the sailor, his face darkening. "She
was a wretch!" he added in a deep tone.
"How? You, her husband, revile her?"
"I have good reason to, monsieur. Ah, my dead
father, who foresaw it all at the time, warned me! I
laughed, when he said,' Take care, or she will dishonor
you.' He was right. For her sake, I have been hunted


378 THE WIDOW LEROUGE

enough to give up eating and drinking. I felt that she
loved me a little in return, seeing that I was a stout
young fellow, and more than one girl had set her cap
for me. Then my fathert seeing that he could do noth-
ing, that I was wasting away without saying 'boo!'
and was in a fair way to join my mother in the ceme-
tery, decided to let me complete my folly. So one even-
ing, after we had returned from fishing, and I got up
from supper without tasting it, he said to me, ' Marry
the hag, and stop this sort of thing.' I remember it dis-
tinctly; because, at hearing the old fellow call my love
such a name, I flew into a passion, and almost wanted
to kill him. Ah, one never gains any thing by marry-
ing in opposition to one's parents!"
The brave sailor wandered in the midst of his recol-
lections. He was very far from his story.
The judge of inquiry attempted to bring him baa:
into the right path.
"Let us come to our business," he said.
"I am going to, monsieur; but it is necessary to be-
gin at the beginning. I married. That evening, after
the ceremony, and when the relatives and invited guests
had departed, I went to join my wife, when I perceived
my father all alone in one corner weeping. The sight
touched my heart; and I had a foreboding of evil; but
it quickly passed away. It is so delightful, those first
six months with a dearly loved wife! You seem to be
surrounded by mists, that change the very stones into
palaces and temples so completely that novices are taken
in. For two years, in spite of a few little quarrels,
every thing went on nicely. Claudine managed me like
a charm. Ah, she was cunning! She seized, bound, car-
ried me to market and sold me, while I was totally un-
conscious. Her great fault was her extravagance. All


380 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
and buy the meadow after all. That confounded
meadow decided me."
"Did she not tell you of the commission with which
£le was charged?"
This question astonished Lerouge. He thought that
it was said very properly that justice sees and knows
every thing.
"Not then," he answered; " but you shall see. Eight
days after, the postman brought a letter, asking her to
come to Paris to get the child. It arrived in the even-
ing. 'Very well,' said she, 'I will start to-morrow
by the diligence.' I didn t say a word then; but next
morning, when she was about to take her seat in the
diligence, I declared that I was going with her. She
didn't seem at all angry. On the contrary, she seemed
pleased; at which of course I was delighted. At Paris,
she was to get the little one at Madame Gerdy's, who
lived on the Boulevarde. We arranged that she was to
go alone, while I waited for her at our inn. After she
had gone, I grew jealous. I went out in about an hour,
and prowled about Madame Gerdy's house, making in-
quiries of the servants and of the passers by, until I
discovered that she was the mistress of the Count de
Commarin. Of course I was in a passion; and, if I
had been master, my wife should have gone back with-
out the little scamp. A nice sort of thing to be mixed
up in, to be sure, I thought."
The judge of inquiry moved uneasily in his chair.
"Will this man never end?" he muttered.
"Yes, you are perfectly right," he said; "but never
mind your thoughts. Go on, go on!"
"CLaudine, monsieur, was more obstinate than a
mule. After three days of violent discussion, and by


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 381
the wicked snares of kissing and embracing, she tore
from me a reluctant consent. Then she told me that
we were not to return home by diligence. The lady,
who feared the fatigue of the journey for her child,
had arranged that we should carry him back by short
stages in her carriage, and drawn by her horses. That
was keeping up grand style. I was ass enough to be
delighted, because it gave me a chance to see the coun-
try at my leisure. We were installed with the children,
mine and the other, in an elegant carriage, drawn by
magnificent animals, driven by a coachman in liv-
ery. My wife was mad with joy, and chinked the gold
in my face. I was angry, as an honest husband should
be, who sees money in the family which he didn't earn.
At seeing my countenance, Claudine, hoping to pacify
me, resolved to tell me the whole truth. 'See here,'
she said to me,—"
Lerouge stopped, and, changing his tone said,—
"You understand that it is my wife who is speak-
ing?"
"Yes, yes. Go on."
"She said to me, shaking her purse, ' See here, my
man, we shall never want again; and here's the reason:
the count, who has a legitimate child of the same age as
this, wishes that this youngster shall bear his name in-
stead of the other; and this can only be accomplished
through me. On the road, we are to meet at an inn,
where we are to lodge, Germain and the nurse to whom
they have entrusted the legitimate child: we are to be
put in the same chamber; and, during the night, I am
to exchange the little ones, as they are very much alike,
one for the other. The count is to give eight thousand
francs for it, and an annuity of a thousand francs.'"


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 383
erness than you, eh?' That, monsieur, is word fof
word what Qaudine said to me."
The rough sailor drew from his pocket a large blue-
checked handkerchief, and blew his nose so violently
that the windows shook. It was his way of weeping.
Daburon was confounded.
Since the beginning of this wretched affair, he had
encountered astonishment after astonishment. Scarcely
had he got his ideas in order on any point, when some-
thing new arose which utterly routed them again.
He felt confused. What was this new and grave in-
formation? What did it mean?
He longed to investigate it instantly; but he saw
that Lerouge was getting on with difficulty, laboriously
disentangling his memories, guided by a well-stretched
thread, which the least interruption would break.
"What Qaudine proposed to me," continued the
sailor, " was villainous; and I was an honest man. But
she kneaded me to her will as easily as a baker kneads
a pate. She overcame my heart; she made me see that
white as snow which was really as black as ink. How
I loved her! She proved to me that we were wronging
no one, and that we were making little Jacques's for-
tune and I was silenced. At evening, we arrived at
some village, and the coachman, stopping the carriage
before an inn, told us we were to lodge there. We en-
tered, and who do you think we saw? That scamp,
Germain, with a nurse, carrying a child so exactly
like the one we had that I was startled. They had jour-
neyed there, like ourselves, in one of the count's car-
riages. A suspicion came over me. How could I be
sure that Claudine had not invented the second story
to pacify me? She was certainly capable of it. I was


384 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
enraged. I would consent to the one wickedness, but
not to the other. I resolved not to lose sight of our
little chap, swearing that they shouldn't cheat me: so
I kept him all the evening on my knees; and, to make
it the surer, I tied my handkerchief about his waist.
Ah! their plan was well laid. After supper they spoke
of turning in; and then it was found that there were
only two rooms and two beds to spare in the house. It
seemed as though it was built expressly for our scheme.
The innkeeper said that the two nurses might sleep in
one room and Germain and myself in the other. You
understand, monsieur? Add to this, that during the
entire evening I had surprised looks of intelligence
passing between my wife and that rascally servant, and
you can imagine how furious I was. It was conscience
that spoke; and I was trying to silence it. I knew very
well that I was doing wrong; and I almost wished my-
self dead. Why is it these scamps can almost twist
an honest man's spirit around like a weather-cock with
every breath of their rascality?"
Daburon's only reply was a blow of his fist, almost
powerful enough to break his desk.
Lerouge at that proceeded more quickly.
"As for me, I stopped the business, pretending to
be too jealous to leave my wife a minute. Every thing
turned out as I wished. The other nurse went into
the room first. Claudine and I followed soon after-
wards. My wife laid down in her clothes by the side
of the other nurse and child. I installed myself in a
chair near the bed, determined to keep one eye open,
and to mount close watch. I put out the candle, in or-
der to let the women sleep; as for me, I could scarcely
think. My ideas drove away sleep; and I thought of
my father, and what he would say, if he ever knew


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 385
what I was doing. Towards midnight, I heard Clau-
dine moving. I held my breath. She arose. Was she
going to change the children? At one moment, I
thought not; the next, I felt sure she was. I was be-
side myself; and seizing her by the arm, I commenced
to beat her roughly, letting loose all that I had on my
heart. I spoke in a loud voice, as on a ship in a high
wind. I swore like a fiend. I raised a frightful dis-
turbance. The other nurse cried out, as if she were
having her throat cut. At this uproar, Germain rushed
in with a lighted candle. The sight of him finished me.
Not knowing what I was doing, I drew from my pocket
a Spanish knife, which I always carried, and, seizing
the cursed baby, I ran the blade across his arm, crying,
'This fellow at least can't be changed without my
knowing it; he is marked for life !'"
Lerouge could go on no further.
Great drops of sweat stood upon his forehead, and
flowing down his cheeks, lodged in the deep wrinkles
of his face.
He panted; and the stern glance from the judge op-
pressed him, harassed him, urging him on, just as the
whip urges on the negro overcome with fatigue.
"The wound on the little fellow," he continued,
"was terrible. It bled dreadfully; and he might have
died: but I didn't stop at that. I was troubled about
the future, about what might happen afterwards; so
I determined to write out all that had occurred, and to
have all sign it. This was done: we all four signed.
Germain didn't dare resist; for I spoke with knife in
hand. He wrote his name first, begging me only to say
nothing about it to the count, swearing that, for his
part, he would never breathe a word of it, and pledging
the other nurse to a like secrecy."


386 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"And have you kept this paper?" asked Daburon.
"Yes, monsieur: and as the officer, to whom I con-
fessed all, advised me to bring it with me, I went to the
place where I always kept it; and I have it here."
"Give it to me."
Lerouge took from the pocket of his roundabout an
old parchment pocket-book, fastened with a leather
strap and drew out a paper yellowed by age and
careful hiding.
"Here it is," said he. "The paper hasn't been
opened since that cursed night."
As the judge unfolded it, ashes fell out, which had
been used to keep the writing, when wet, from blot-
ting.
It was really a brief description of the scene, de-
scribed by the old sailor. The four signatures were all
there.
"What has become of the witnesses who signed this
paper?" muttered the judge, speaking to himself.
Lerouge thought the question was put to him.
"Germain is dead," he replied; "I have been told
that he was killed in some broil or other. Claudine
has been assassinated; but the other nurse still lives.
She told the affair to her husband, I know; for he
hinted as much to me. Her name is Brossette; and she
lives in the village of Commarin itself."
"Is there any thing else?" asked the judge, after
having taken down the name and address of this wo-
man.
"The next day, monsieur, Claudine tried to pacify
me, and to extort a promise of silence. The child was
hardly sick at all; but he retained an enormous scar on
his arm."


388 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
tertain the worst scoundrels in the country; and there
was nothing too good or too expensive for them. She
took to drinking, too; so that she was half her time far
from sober. One night when she thought me at Rouen,
I unexpectedly returned. I entered, and found her with
the head bailiff of the town. I might have killed him,
like the vermin that he was: it was my right; but I had
pity on him. I took him by the neck and pitched him
out the window, without opening it. It didn't kill him,
more's the pity! Then I fell upon my wife, and beat
her until she couldn't stir."
Lerouge spoke in a harsh voice, now and then thrust-
ing his restless hands into his eyes.
"I pardoned her," he continued; " and the man who
beats his wife and then pardons her is lost. In the fu-
ture, she only takes better precautions,—becomes more
of a hypocrite. In the mean while, Madame Gerdy had
taken back her child; and Claudine had nothing more to
restrain her. Protected and counselled by her mother,
whom she had taken to live with us and who took care
of our Jacques, she managed to deceive me for more
than a year. I thought she had recovered her better
senses; but not at all: she lived a terrible life. My
house became the resort of all the good-for nothing
rogues in the country, for whom my wife brought out
bottles of wine and brandy; and, while I was away
at sea, they got drunk promiscuously. When money
failed, she wrote to the count or his mistress; and the
orgies continued. Occasionally I had doubts which
disturbed me; and then without reason, for a simple
yes or no, I would beat her until she was even more
thirsty, and after that pardon like a coward, like an
imbecile. It was a hard life. I don't know which gave
me the most pleasure, embracing her or beating her.


390 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
her that she need never expect to speak with me again;
that I was nothing more to her, and that she might look
upon herself as a widow: and that night I went away
with my son."
"And what became of your wife after your de-
parture?"
"I cannot say, monsieur; I only know that she
quitted the country a year after I did."
"You have never seen her since?"
"Never."
"But you were at her house three days before this
crime was committed."
"That is true, monsieur; but that was absolutely
necessary. I had been at much trouble to find her: no
one knew what had become of her. Fortunately my
notary was able to procure Madame Gerdy's address.
He wrote to her; and that is how I knew that Claudine
was living at Jonchere. I had just come from Rouen.
Capt. Gervaise, who is a friend of mine, offered to bring
me to Paris on his boat; and I accepted. Ah, monsieur,
what a shock I experienced when I entered her house!
My wife did not know me! By constantly telling the
world that I was dead, she had without a doubt ended
by believing it herself. When I told my name, she
fell back. The wretched woman had not changed in
the least; she had by her side a glass and a bottle of
brandy—"
"All this doesn't explain why you were seeking
your wife."
"It was on Jacques's account, monsieur, that I went.
The little boy has grown to be a man; and he is anxious
to marry. For that, his mother's consent is necessary;
and I was taking to Claudine a paper, which the notary
had drawn up, and which she signed. Here it is now."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Daburon took the paper, and appeared to read it at-
tentively. After a moment he asked,—
"Have you tried to think who could have assassi-
nated your wife?"
Lerouge made no reply.
"Have you had suspicions of any one?" persisted
the judge.
"Well, monsieur," replied the sailor, "what can I
say? It might be that Claudine had wearied out these
people from whom she drew money, like water from a
well; or perhaps, getting drunk some day, she blabbed
too freely."
The testimony being as full as possible, Daburon dis-
charged Lerouge, at the same time advising him to wait
for Gevrol, who would take him to a hotel, where he
might wait, at the disposal of justice, until further or-
ders.
"All your expenses will be repaid you," added the
judge.
Lerouge had scarcely turned on his heel, when an
event grave, extraordinary, unheard of, unprecedented,
took place in the office of the judge of inquiry.
Constant, the serious, impassive, immovable, deaf
and dumb Constant, arose and spoke.
He broke a silence of fifteen years. He forgot
himself so far as to offer an opinion.
He said,—
"This, monsieur, is a most extraordinary affair."
Very extraordinary, truly, thought Daburon, putting
to rout all predictions, all preconceived opinions.
Why had he, the judge, moved with such deplorable
haste? Why, before risking any thing, had he not
waited to possess all the elements of this weighty mat-
ter, to hold all the threads of this complicated plot?


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
Justice is accused of slowness; but it is this very
slowness that constitutes its strength and surety, its
almost infallibility.
One cannot know, on the instant, what course the
testimony will take.
There is no knowing what facts investigations ap-
parently useless may reveal.
The dramas of the court of assize lose much by not
observing the unities.
When the labyrinth of the various passions and mo-
tives seems inextricable, an unknown personage pre-
sents himself, coming from, no one knows where; and
it is he who brings on the denouement.
Daburon, usually the most prudent of men, had con-
sidered as simple one of the most complex of cases. He
had acted in a mysterious crime, which demanded the
utmost caution, as carelessly as though it were a case
of simple misdemeanor. Why? Because his memory
had not left free his deliberation, his judgment, his dis-
cernment. He had feared equally appearing weak and
appearing revengeful. Thinking himself sure of his
facts, he had been carried away by his animosity.
And yet how often had he deceived himself with
the idea of duty! But then, when you are at all
doubtful about your duty, you are always on a false
track.
The singular part of it all was, that the faults of the
judge of inquiry sprang from his very honesty. He had
been led astray by a too great refinement of conscience.
The scruples which troubled him had filled his mind with
phantoms, had pushed him even to a passionate ani-
mosity.
Calmer now, he examined the matter more soundly.
As a whole, thank heaven! there was nothing done


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
which could not be repaired. He accused himself,
however, none the less hardly. Chance alone had
stopped him. On the instant, he resolved that this ex-
amination should be his last. His profession hence-
forth could inspire him only with an unconquerable
loathing. Then his interview with Claire had opened
all the old wounds in his heart; and they bled more
dreadfully than ever. He felt, in despair, that his life
was broken, ruined. A man may feel so, when all
women are as nothing to him except one, whom he may
never hope to possess.
Too religious to think of suicide, he asked himself
with anguish what would become of him when he
should throw aside his judge's robes.
Then he turned again to the business in hand. In
any case, innocent or guilty, Albert was really the Vis-
count de Commarin, the count's legitimate son. But
was he guilty? Plainly not.
"I think," he cried out suddenly, "I had better
speak to the Count de Commarin. Constant, send to
his house and bring him here at once; if he is not at
home, have him sought for."
Daburon felt that an unpleasant duty was before
him. He should have to say to, the old gentleman,
"Monsieur, I was mistaken about your legitimate son;
you have still the right one with you." What a po-
sition, not only painful, but bordering on the ridicu-
lous! As a compensation, though, he could tell him
that Albert was innocent.
To Noel he must also tell the truth, must hurl him
to earth, after having raised him among the clouds.
What a blow it would be! But, without a doubt, the
count would make him some compensation; at least, he
ought to.


396 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
He proved to be a baker of Asnieres; and he had
written to him, asking an interview.
Such was Pere Tabaret's balance sheet, when on
Monday morning he presented himself at the palais de
justice, in order to hear if there had been any informa-
tion received as to the Widow Lerouge's past life.
He found that none had arrived; but in the gallery
he met Gevrol and his man.
The chief of detectives was triumphant, and showed
it, too. On seeing Tabaret, he called out,—
"Ah well, my illustrious bird's-nest hunter, what
news? Have you found any more mare's nests, since
the other day? Ah, you old rogue, you are aiming for
my place!"
The old man was sadly changed.
The consciousness of his mistake made him humble
and meek. These pleasantries, which a few days before
would have made him angry, now did not touch him.
Instead of replying, he,bowed his head in such a peni-
tent manner that Gevrol was astonished.
"Jeer at me, my good Gevrol," he replied, "mock
me without pity: you are right; I deserve it all."
"Ah," said the chief, "you have performed some
new masterpiece, my ardent old fellow!"
Pere Tabaret shook his head sadly.
"I have delivered up an innocent man," he said;
"and justice will not give him back to me."
Gevrol was delighted, and rubbed his hands until he
almost wore away the skin.
"This is fine," he sang out, "this is capital. To
bring criminals to justice is of no account at all; but to
free the innocent, Jove! that is the last touch of art.
Papa Tirauclair, you are a wonder; and I bow before
you."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 399
forgotten the Asnieres baker, whom he had appointed
to meet at his house. He might find him there still.
On the stairway he met Daburon; but he hardly
deigned to reply to him.
He was soon out, and trotting like a lean cat along
the quays.
"There; we'll fix it all right," he said to himself.
"Noel may feel bad; but he shan't suffer. Pshaw!
if he likes, I'll adopt him. Tabaret doesn't sound so
well as Commarin, but it's at least a name. No matter.
Gevrol's story affects in no way Albert's situation nor
my convictions. He is the legitimate son; so much the
better for him. That doesn't in any way prove his in-
nocence, though, unless I am mistaken. He evidently
knows nothing of these surprising circumstances, any
more than his father. He must believe, as well as the
count, in the substitution having taken place. Madame
Gerdy, too, must have been ignorant of these facts; they
must have invented some story to explain the scar.
But then she must have known that Noel was really
her son; for she had placed a mark of recognition upon
him, which she of course examined when he was re-
turned to her. Then, when Noel discovered the count's
letters, she must have hastened to explain to him—"
Pere Tabaret stopped as suddenly as if his path were
obstructed by a dangerous reptile.
He was terrified at the conclusion he had reached.
"Noel, then, must be the assassin of the Widow Le-
rouge, that he might prevent her confessing that the
substitution never took place; and he burnt the letters
and papers which proved it!"
But he pushed away with horror this supposition, as
every honest man drives away a detestable thought
which by accident gets into his mind.


40O THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"What an old fool I am!" he exclaimed, resuming
his walk; "this is the result of the dreadful profession
I used to glory in following. Suspect Noel, my boy,
my sole heir, the personification of virtue and honor,—.
Noel, whom ten years of constant intercourse have
taught me to esteem and admire to such a degree that
I would speak for him as I would for myself? Men of
his class must have terrible passions to push them to
shedding blood: and I have never known Noel to have
but two passions, his mother, and his profession. And
I dare even to breathe a suspicion against this noble
character! I ought to be whipped. Old fool! isn't
the lesson you have already received sufficiently terrible?
Will you never be more cautious?"
Thus he reasoned, forcing himself to repel these dis-
quieting thoughts, and restraining his habits of investi-
gation; but in his heart a tormenting voice constantly
whispered, "Could it be Noel?"
Pere Tabaret arrived at the Rue St. Lazare. Before
his door stood an elegant blue coupe, drawn by a mag-
nificent horse. Mechanically he stopped.
"A handsome animal!" he said; "my lodgers must
be receiving some fine callers."
They were apparently receiving very bad ones, too;
for, at that moment, he saw Clergeot coming out, honest
Clergeot, whose presence in a house betrayed ruin just
as surely as the presence of undertakers indicate death.
The old detective, who knew everybody, was well ac-
quainted with the honest banker. He had even had
business with him once, examining his books.
He stopped him.
"Halloa! you old crocodile," said he; "you haw
business, then, in my house?"


402 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
as he could muster; "youth must have something to
amuse itself with. But what do you suppose that this
little girl costs him a year?"
"Oh, I don't know! He is wrong in not limiting her.
According to my calculation, she must have, during the
four years that he has had her, cost him in the neigh-
borhood of five hundred thousand francs."
Four years? Five hundred thousand francs!
These words, these figures, burst like a bombshell on
Tabaret's brain.
A half million!
In that case, Noel must be utterly ruined. But
then—
"It is a great deal," said he, succeeding by desperate
efforts in hiding his sufferings; "it is enormous; but
then, Gerdy has resources."
"He?" interrupted the usurer, shrugging his should-
ers. "Not a bit of it," he added, snapping his fingers;
"he is utterly ruined. But, if he owes you money, never
fear. He is a sly dog: he is going to get married. I
have just renewed his notes for twenty-six thousand
francs, on that understanding. Au revoir, Monsieur
Tabaret."
The usurer hurried away, leaving the poor old fellow
standing still as a stone in the street.
He experienced something of that terrible grief which
breaks a father's heart, when he begins to realize
that his dearly-loved son is perhaps the worst of scoun-
drels.
And, moreover, such was his confidence in Noel that
he struggled with his reason to again resist the sus-
picion which tormented him. Might not this usurer
be slandering the advocate?
People who demand more than ten per cent, are capa-


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 403
ble of any thing. Evidently he had exaggerated the
exten' of Noel's follies.
And, even if it were true, have not many men done
just such insane things for women, without ceasing to
be honest?
He was about entering his door.
A whirlwind of silk, lace, and velvet barred the pas-
sage.
A bright young brunette was coming out.
She jumped as lightly as a bird into the blue coupe.
Pere Tabaret was a gallant man, and the young girl
was most charming; but he never even glanced at her.
He entered; and beneath the arch he found his porter
standing, cap in hand, looking tenderly with his one eye
at a twenty franc piece.
"Ah, monsieur," said the man, "such a fine lady, so
ladylike! If you had only been here five minutes
sooner."
"What lady? why?"
"This fine lady, who just went out, monsieur, she
came to inquire about Monsieur Gerdy. She gave me
twenty francs for answering her questions. It seems
that monsieur is going to be married; and she was
evidently much excited at it. Superb creature! I know
now why he is out every night."
"Monsieur Gerdy?"
"Yes, monsieur; but I have never spoken to you of
It, because he seemed to hide it. He never asked me to
open for him: no, he wasn't such a fool. He slipped
out by the little back gate. I said to myself, ' He don't
want to disturb me: it is very thoughtful on his part;
and he seems to enjoy it so.'"
The porter spoke with his eye constantly fixed on the
gold piece.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 405
"Follow on, old fellow, follow on. If you haven't a
head, you must use your legs. Why didn't you re-
member to get this woman's address from Clergeot?
You must be sharper than that, my old friend, sharper
than that!
"If you want to be a detective, you must be fit for the
profession; and every detective ought to have the shanks
of a deer."
He thought only of catching up with the blue coupe
and of nothing else. But he was losing ground,—plainly
losing ground.
He was only half way down the Rue Tronchet, and
he broke down: he felt that his limbs could not carry
him a hundred steps farther; and the cursed coupe had
reached the Madeleine.
Hurrah! a covered hack, going in the same direction
with himself, passed by.
He made a sign more despairing than a drowning
man's. The sign was seen. He gathered together his
last strength, and with a bound jumped up into the vehi-
cle without the aid of the step.
"There," he gasped, "that blue coupe; twenty
francs."
"All right," replied the coachman, nodding.
And he covered his ill-conditioned horse with vigor-
ous blows, muttering,—
"A jealous husband following his wife; that's evi-
dent. Hi, you rascal!"
As for Pere Tabaret, he was a long time in recover-
ing himself, his strength was so completely exhausted.
For nearly a minute, he could not catch his breath.
They were soon upon the boulevarde. He stood up in
the carriage, supporting himself by the driver's seat.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 409
Juliette's parlors. Madame was dressing, the chamber-
maid informed him, and would be down instantly.
Pere Tabaret was astonished at the luxury of this
parlor. There was nothing flaring, or coarse, or in bad
taste. The old fellow who knew a good deal about such
things, saw that every thing was of the costliest. The
ornaments on the mantel alone must have cost, at the
lowest estimation, twenty thousand francs.
"Clergeot," he said, "didn't exaggerate a bit."
Juliette's entrance disturbed his reflections.
She had taken off her dress, and had hastily thrown
about her a black dressing-gown, trimmed with cherry
satin. Her beautiful hair, slightly disordered after her
drive, fell in cascades upon her neck, and was fastened
behind her delicate ears. She dazzled Pere Tabaret; and
yet he perfectly understood such follies.
"You wished to speak with me?" she inquired,
bending graciously.
"Madame," replied Pere Tabaret, "lama friend of
Noel Gerdy's, I may say his best friend, and "—
"Pray sit down, mo'nsieur," interrupted the lady.
She placed herself on a sofa, just showing the tips
of her little feet encased in slippers matching the dress;
while the old man sat down in a chair.
"I come, madame," he began, "on very serious
business. Your presence at Monsieur Gerdy's house—"
"Ah," cried Juliette to herself, "he knows of my
visit already; he must be a detective."
"My dear child—" began Tabaret, paternally.
"Oh! I know, monsieur, what your errand is. Noel
has sent you to scold me. He is anxious to prevent my
coming to his house. Well. I don't want to go; but
it's annoying to have a puzzle for a lover,—a man whom


4io THE WIDOW LEROUGE
nobody knows anything about, a riddle in a black coat
and white cravat, a sad and mysterious being—"
"You have been imprudent."
"Why? Because he is going to get married? He
has told you all about it, then?"
"Suppose that that was not true."
"Oh, but it is! He told that old shark Clergeot so,
who told me. Any way, he must be plotting something
in that head of his; for the last month he has
been so fickle; he has changed so that I hardly recognize
him."
Pere Tabaret was especially anxious to know whether
Noel had prepared an alibi for the Tuesday of the crime.
That for him was the grand question. If he had, he
was certainly guilty; if not, he might still be innocent.
Madame Juliette, he had no doubt, could make that point
perfectly clear.
Consequently he had come with his lesson all pre-
pared, his little trap all set.
The young lady's outburst disconcerted him a little;
but he continued, trusting to the chances in conversa-
tion,—
"Will you prevent Noel's marriage, then?"
"His marriage!" cried Juliette, bursting out into a
laugh; "ah, the poor boy! If he meets no worse ob-
stacle than myself, his path will be smooth. Let him
marry, this dear Noel, the sooner the better, and let me
hear no more of him."
"You don't love him, then?" asked the old fellow,
surprised at this amiable frankness.
"Listen, monsieur. I did love him intensely; but
that's all over now. For four years, I have passed an
intolerable existence,—I, who am so fond of pleasure.
If Noel doesn't leave me, I shall have to leave him. I


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 4"
am tired of having a lover who blushes for me and de-
spises me."
"If he aespises you, my dear, he scarcely shows it
here," replied Pere Tabaret, casting a significant glance
about the room.
"You mean," said the girl, raising herself, "that
he spends a great deal for me. It is true. He pretends
that he has ruined himself for me; it's very possible.
But what's that to me? I am not a hard-hearted wo-
man; and I would much prefer less money and more
love. My follies have been inspired by anger and ennui.
Monsieur Gerdy treats me like a mercenary woman;
and so I act like one. We are quits."
"You know well that he worships you."
"He? I tell you he is ashamed of me. He hides me
like a secret crime. You are the first of his friends to
whom I have ever spoken. Ask him if he has ever rid-
den out with me? It would seem as though my very
touch was dishonor. Why, no longer ago than last Tues-
day, we went to the theatre! He hired an entire box;
but do you think that he sat in it with me? Not at all.
He slipped away; and I saw no more of him the whole
evening."
"How? Were you obliged to return home alone?"
"No. At the end of the play, nearly midnight, he
deigned to reappear. Then we went to the opera ball,
where we took supper. Ah, that was charming! But,
at the ball, he didn't dare to let down his hood, or to
take off his mask. At supper, I had to treat him like a
perfect stranger, for fear of his friends."
This, then, was the alibi prepared in case of trouble.
Less wrapped up in her own passion, Juliette would
have noticed Pere Tabaret's looks, and would certainly
have checked herself.


412 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
He was perfectly livid, and trembled like a leaf
"Well," he said, making a superhuman effort to ar-
ticulate his words, " the supper, I suppose, was none the
less gay for that."
"Gay!" repeated the girl, shrugging her shoulders;
"you would scarcely have known him. If you ever ask
him to dinner, take good care how you allow him to
drink. He made as merry over his wine as a drunken
sailor. At the second bottle, he was as light headed as a
cork; so much so, that he lost every thing he had,—his
coat, purse, umbrella, cigar-case—"
Pere Tabaret hadn't strength enough to listen longer;
he jumped to his feet like a furious madman.
"Miserable wretch!" he cried to himself, " infamous
scoundrel! It is he; but I have him."
And he rushed out, leaving Juliette so terrified that
she called her maid.
"Child," said she, " I have made some dreadful blun-
der; have let some secret out. I know I have done
wrong; I feel it. That old fellow was no friend of
Noel's he came to circumvent me, to lead me by the
nose; and he has done it. Without a doubt I have
spoken against Noel. What could I have said? I have
thought carefully; but I can remember nothing: he must
be warned though. I will write him a line, while you
get a messenger."
Getting again into the hack, Pere Tabaret hurried to-
wards the prefecture of police. Noel an assassin! His
hate was now without bounds, as formerly had been his
trusting love. He had been cruelly played with, unwor-
thily duped by the vilest, most criminal of men. He
thirsted for vengeance; he tried to think of some punish-
ment which was not too small for the crime.
"For he has not only assassinated Claudine," thought


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
most afraid of this remarkable patient, who cried to
him hoarsely,—
"Bleed me!"
The doctor ventured an objection; but already the old
fellow had taken off his coat, and drawn up one of his
shirt-sleeves.
"Bleed me!" he repeated. "Do you want me to
die?"
The doctor finally obeyed; and Pere Tabaret came
out quieted and relieved.
An hour later, armed with the necessary power, and
accompanied by a policeman, he proceeded to the depart-
ment of lost articles at the railway, to make the neces-
sary search.
His investigations resulted as he had expected.
He found that, on the evening of Shrove Tuesday,
there had been found in one of the second class com-
partments of train forty-five a great coat and an um-
brella.
They showed him the articles; and he recognized
them as Noel's.
In one of the pockets of the great coat, he found a
pair of pearl gray gloves, torn and soiled, as well as a
return ticket from Chatou, which had not been used.
In hurrying on, in pursuit of the truth, Pere Tabaret
knew only too well what this meant.
His conviction, unwillingly formed when Clergeot
disclosed to him Noel's follies, had been since strength-
ened by a thousand circumstances. At Juliette's
house he became positively sure; and yet, at this last
moment, when doubt became absolutely impossible, in
seeing the evidence cleared up, he was depressed.
"On," he cried at last. "Now to arrest him."


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 41S
And, without losing an instant, he hastened to the
palais de justice, where he hoped to find the judge of
inquiry.
Notwithstanding the lateness of the hour, Daburon
had not yet left his office.
He was conversing with the Count de Commarin,
giving him the facts revealed by Pierre Lerouge, whom
the count had believed dead many years since.
Pere Tabaret entered like a whirlwind, too distracted
to notice the presence of a stranger.
"Monsieur," he cried, stuttering with rage, " we have
got the real assassin! It is he, my adopted son, my heir,
Noel!"
"Noel!" repeated Daburon, rising. And then, in a
lower tone, he added, " I had suspected it."
"A warrant is necessary at once," continued the old
detective. "If we lose a minute, he will slip through
our fingers. He will know that he is discovered, if his
mistress has time to warn him of my visit. Hasten,
monsieur, hasten I"
Daburon opened his lips to ask an explanation; but
the old detective continued,—
"That is not yet all. An innocent man, Albert, is
still in prison."
"He will not be so an hour longer," replied the mag-
istrate; "a moment before your arrival, I had made
arrangements to have him released. But about this
other—"
Neither Pere Tabaret nor Daburon had noticed the
disappearance of the Count de Commarin.
At Noel's name he had gained the door quietly, and
rushed into the gallery.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 417
by the look of hatred, anger, contempt, on his father's
face.
A shiver ran through his veins. His teeth chattered;
he saw that he was lost.
"Wretch!" cried the count.
And, dreading his own violence, the old gentleman
threw his cane into a corner.
He was unwilling to strike his son; he considered him
unworthy of being struck by his hands.
After he had entered, there was a moment of mortal
silence which seemed to them both a century.
Both at the same time were filled with bitter thoughts,
which would require a volume to transcribe.
Noel took courage, and spoke first.
"Monsieur," he began.
"Silence!" exclaimed the count hoarsely; "keep si-
lent. It may be—heaven forgive me!—that you are my
son! Alas, I cannot doubt it now! Wretch! you knew
well that you were Madame Gerdy's son. Infamous
creature! you have not only committed this murder,
but you have caused an innocent man to be charged with
your crime. Parricide! you have also killed your
mother."
The advocate attempted to stammer forth a protest.
"You killed her," continued the count with increased
energy, "if not by poison, at least by your crimes. I
understand all now; she was not delirious this morning.
But you knew well what she would say. You were lis-
tening; and, if you dared to enter at the moment when
one word would have destroyed you, it was because you
calculated the effect of your presence. It was to you
that she spoke that last word, ' Assassin!'"
Little by little, Noel had retired to the end of the
room; and he stood leaning against the wall, his head


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 419
"Miserable wretch!" said the count, threatening;
"then I must do it."
He moved towards the drawer; but Noel closed it
with a slam.
"Listen to me, monsieur," said the advocate in that
hoarse, quick tone, which imminent danger gives a man;
"do not waste in vain words the few moments' respite
left me. I have committed a crime, it is true, and I do
not attempt to justify it; but who laid the foundation of
it, if not yourself? Now, you do me the favor of
offering me a pistol. Thanks. I must decline it. This
generosity is not through any regard for me: you only
wish to avoid the scandal of my trial, and the disgrace
which cannot fail to reflect upon your name."'
The count was about to reply.
"Give me leave," interrupted Noel imperiously. "I
decline killing myself; I wish to save my life, if possible.
Supply me with the means of escape; and I promise
you that I will die before I am captured. I say, supply
me with means; for I have not twenty francs to my
name. My last bank note was burnt the day when—
you understand me. There isn't enough in my mother's
house to give her a decent burial. Then, some money."
"Never!"
"Then I will deliver myself up; and you will see the
effect upon the name you hold so dear!"
The count, mad with rage, jumped to his desk for a
pistol. Noel placed himself before him.
"Oh, do not struggle!" said he coldly; "I am the
strongest."
M. de Commarin recoiled.
By thus speaking of the trial, of scandal, disgrace, the
advocate had made an impression upon him.
For a moment hesitating between love for his name


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 421
my father: you are the true criminal; but you will es-
cape punishment . Ah, heaven is not just! I curse
you."
When, an hour later, the servants entered the count's
study, they found him stretched on the floor, his face
against the carpet, with scarcely a sign of life.
But Noel left the house, and staggered up the Rue
Universite.
It seemed to him that the pavement reeled beneath his
feet, and that every thing about him was turning.
But, at the same time, strange to relate, he felt an
incredible relief, almost delight.
Honest Balan's theory was correct
It was ended. All was over; he was ruined. No
more anguish now, no more useless fright and foolish
terrors, no more dissembling, struggling. Henceforth
there was nothing more to fear. His horrible role played
to the bitter end, he could lay aside his mask and breathe
freely.
An irresistible weariness succeeding to the highly-
wrought passion which had sustained him before the
count destroyed his impudent arrogance. All the springs
of his organization, stretched for a week beyond their
limits, now relaxed and gave way. The fever which for
the last eight days had kept him up failed him now; and,
with the weariness, he felt an imperative need of rest.
He experienced a great void, an utter indifference for
every thing.
His insensibility bore a striking resemblance to that
felt by people afflicted with sea-sickness; who care for
nothing, whom no sensations are capable of moving, who
have neither strength nor courage to think, and who
could not be aroused from their lethargy by the presence
of any great danger, not even of death itself.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
They might have arrested him then; and he would
never have thought of resisting, nor of defending him-
self: he could not have taken a step to hide, to fly, to
save himself in any way.
For a moment he had serious thoughts of giving him-
self up as a prisoner, in order to secure peace, to gain
quiet, to free himself from this anxiety about his safety.
But he struggled against this dull stupor. The reac-
tion came, shaking off this weakness of mind and body.
The consciousness of his position, of his danger, came
to him. He foresaw, with horror, the scaffold, as one
sees the abyss by the flashes of lightning.
"I must save my life," he thought; "but how?"
That mortal terror which deprives the assassin of even
ordinary common sense seized him.
He looked eagerly about him, and thought he noticed
three or four passers by look at him curiously. His ter-
ror increased.
He began running in the direction of the Latin quar-
ter without purpose, without aim, running for the sake
of running, to escape himself,—like Crime, as repre-
sented by the painter, fleeing under the lashes of the
furies.
He very soon stopped however, seeing that this ex-
traordinary procedure attracted attention.
It seemed that every one was on the point of de-
nouncing him as the murderer: he thought he read con-
tempt and horror upon every face, suspicion in every
eye.
He walked along, instinctively repeating to himself,—
"I must follow some plan!"
But, in this horrible excitement, he was incapable of
seeing any thing, of thinking, planning, determining,
deciding.


424 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
assume, and the frontier to which he should go, when a
recollection of Juliette crossed his heart like a hot iron.
Was he going to escape without her, go away with the
certainty of never seeing her again?
Should he fly, pursued by all the police in the world,
tracked like a deer, and she remain peaceably in Paris?
Impossible. For whom had he committed this crime?
For her. Who reaped the benefits of it? She. Was it
not just, then, that she should bear her share of the pun-
ishment?
"She does not love me," thought the advocate with
bitterness; "she never loved me. She would be de-
lighted to be forever free from me. She will not regret
me, now that I can be of no more use to her. An empty
coffer is an unserviceable piece of furniture. Juliette
is prudent; she has managed to save a pretty little for-
tune. Grown rich at my expense, she will take some
new lover. She will forget me: she will live happily;
while I— And I was going away without her."
The voice of prudence cried out to him, "Wretched
man! to drag a woman with you, and such a woman, is
but to draw attention upon you, to render flight impossi-
ble, to give yourself up out of mere wantonness."
"What of that?" replied passion. "We will be
saved, or we will perish together. If she does not love
me, I love her. She is a necessity to me. She must
come, or—"
But how to see Juliette, to speak with her, to persuade
her.
To go to her house would expose him too much. The
police were doubtless there already.
"No," thought Noel; " no one knows that she is my
mistress. They won't find it out for two or three days;
and, besides, it would be more dangerous still to write."


432 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
of perspiration on their foreheads, their eyes dilated,
listening breathlessly.
A second ring was heard, then a third.
Charlotte appeared, walking on tip-toe.
"There are a great many at the door," she whispered;
"I heard them talking together."
Growing tired of ringing, they began pounding. A
voice reached the salon; they distinguished but the one
word, " law."
"No hope!" murmured Noel.
"Don't despair," cried Juliette; "the servant's stair-
way!"
"They will scarcely leave that unguarded."
Then Juliette became depressed, terrified.
She was surprised by heavy steps on the stairway,
made by some one endeavoring to walk softly.
"There must be some escape!" she cried fiercely.
"Yes," replied Noel, "one way. I have given my
word. They will pick the lock. Bolt all the doors, and
make them break them down: it will gain time for me."
Juliette and Charlotte sprang forward to do this,
Noel, leaning against the mantel, took out his revolver,
and placed it against his breast.
But Juliette, who had returned, perceiving the move-
ment, threw herself headlong upon her lover, to prevent
his purpose, but so violently that the pistol was dis-
charged. The shot took effect, the ball passing through
Noel's stomach. He gave a terrible cry.
Juliette had made his death a terrible punishment; she
had only prolonged his agony.
He staggered, but did not fall, supporting himself by
the mantel, while the blood flowed copiously.
Juliette clung to him, trying to wrest the pistol from
him.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE
433
"You shall not kill yourself," she cried, "you shall
not. You are mine; I love you. Let them come. What
can they do to you? If they imprison you, you can es-
cape. I will aid you: we will bribe the jailors. Come.
We will live so happily, no matter where, far off in
America where no one knows us!"
The outside door had yielded; they were now at work
at the door of the ante-chamber.
"Hush!" murmured Noel; "they must not take
me alive!"
And, with one last effort, triumphing over his dread-
ful agony, he released himself, and pushed Juliette away,
who fell back on a near sofa.
Then, seizing the revolver, he applied it anew to the
place where he felt his heart beating pulled the trigger,
and rolled to the floor.
It was full time-; for the police at that moment burst
open the door. <
The first thought of the detectives was, that Noel, be-
fore shooting himself, had shot his mistress.
They knew of cases where people had romantically
desired to quit this world together; and had they not
heard two shots? But Juliette was already on her feet
again.
"A doctor," she cried, "a doctor! He cannot be
dead!"
One man ran out; while the others, under the direc-
tion of Pere Tabaret, carried the advocate's body, and
laid it on Madame Juliette's bed.
"He cannot live!" murmured the old man, whose
anger left him at the sight. "I loved him as though
he were my child; his name is still on my will!"
Pere Tabaret stopped. Noel uttered a groan, and
opened his eyes.


S434 THE WIDOW LEROUGE
"You see that he will live!" cried Juliette.
The advocate shook his head feebly, and, for a mo-
ment, he tossed himself painfully on the bed, passing his
right hand first under his coat, and then under his pillow.
He turned himself half-way towards the wall, and
then back again.
Upon a sign, easily understood, they placed another
pillow beneath his head.
Then, in a broken, stifled voice, he spoke a few words.
"I am the assassin," he said. "Write, I will sign it;
it will free Albert. I owe him that at least."
While they were writing, he drew Juliette to him.
"My fortune is beneath the pillow," he whispered.
"I give it all to you."
A flow of blood burst from his mouth; and they
thought he was dying.
But he still had strength enough to sign the confes-
sion, and to launch a joke at Pere Tabaret.
"Ah, ha, old fellow!" he said, "so you are a de-
tective, eh? It must be great fun to trap one's friends!
Ah, I have had a fine game; but, with three women in
the play, you are always sure to lose."
He fell back in agony; and, when the doctor arrived,
he could only announce the death of Maitre Noel Gerdy,
advocate.
CHAPTER XX.
Some months later, one evening, at old Mademoiselle
Goello's, the Marquise dArlanges, looking ten years
younger than when we saw her last, was giving her dow-
ager friends an account of the wedding of her grand-
daughter Claire, who had married the Viscount Albert
de Commarin.


THE WIDOW LEROUGE 435
"The marriage," said she, "took place on our estate
in Normandy, without any flourish of trumpets. My
son-in-law wished it; but I disapproved heartily. The
noise about the mistake of which he had been the victim
would have given eclat to the wedding. That was my
opinion; and I made no effort to conceal it. Pshaw!
the boy is as stubborn as his father, which is saying a
good deal: he persisted in his course; and my shameless
grandchild, obedient to her future husband, took her
stand against me. And yet I defy any one to find to-day
a single individual with courage enough to confess that
he ever for an instant doubted Albert's innocence. I
have left the young people in all the happiness of the
honeymoon, billing and cooing like a pair of turtle-doves.
It must be confessed that they have paid dearly for their
happiness. May they be happy, and may they have
lots of children! for they will find no difficulty in pro-
viding for them. For, do you know, for the first time in
his life, and probably for the last, the count has behaved
like an angel! He has settled all his fortune on his son
absolutely. He intends living alone at one of his coun-
try-seats. I don't think the old man is quite himself. I
am not sure that he has entirely recovered his head since
that attack; but my grandchild is nicely settled. I
know what it has cost me, and how economical I shall
have to be; but I despise parents who hesitate at any
pecuniary sacrifice, when the happiness of their children
is at stake."
The marquise forgot, however, to state that, eight days
before the wedding, Albert had freed her from a very
embarrassing situation, and had discharged a very con-
siderable amount of her debts.
Since then, she had borrowed from him only nine
thousand francs; but she intended confessing to him